


Opposite of Retirement

by snafsnaf



Series: snafsnaf's GO Renovation [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, We are not talking about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 31,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29040627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snafsnaf/pseuds/snafsnaf
Summary: Having moved in together after the Apocalypse, our pair takes a break from London and quickly becomes embroiled in a new conflict between Heaven and Hell.  Sequel to "An Equitable Arrangement".
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: snafsnaf's GO Renovation [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099058
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	1. Minibreak

Crowley enjoyed taking the Bentley away from the city for a bit of a holiday. There were plenty of turns and dips and hills on the road to evoke gasps and hand wringing from the angel that how could he not enjoy it immensely?

The rental agency was nearly deserted when they swung by to pick up the key to the cottage. Aziraphale offered to run in and let Crowley stay in the car or just stretch his legs while Zira dealt with the outstanding paperwork. It was standard angelic behavior and Crowley didn't bother to try to thwart it, merely got out of the car and began a series of increasingly noisy and complex stretches.

Fifteen minutes later, Crowley was feeling limber to the point of whippy when Aziraphale emerged from the office with a key and a map. The map was annotated in ink, calling attention to the location of the cottage as well as restaurants open for dinner and the best bakery in town. 

From there, the drive to the cottage was not long, just enough to squeeze out a few uncomfortable gasps from the passenger. The cottage itself brought out an altogether different reaction.

"Oh, Crowley, look at it! It's picturesque," Aziraphale breathed. 

"Rather like the pictures online," groused the demon. 

"Nonsense, it's so much prettier in person," said Aziraphale, getting out of the car and pulling his luggage from the backseat. 

He was excitedly unlocking the front door before Crowley had gotten his own bag. By the time the demon crossed the threshold, the angel was in another room, curiously discovering the space while his suitcase sat obediently in the front entry. 

"Zira!" Crowley called, dumping his bag beside the angel's. 

"Come and see," was the only reply. 

The dwelling was honestly a little too large to be called a cottage, but that was the Americanization of vacation rentals. There was a front sitting room, a kitchen with a dining table, as well as an attached garage on the main floor, and two bedrooms and a modern bathroom above. Crowley gave everything a quick glance but there was no trace of the angel anywhere.

He spied the back door slightly ajar and went outside. A thin band of grass was neatly mown into a smooth lawn before the backyard began to run wild. And there was Aziraphale, enjoying the view. 

"Isn't it wonderful?" he enthused.

"We have parks in London," Crowley pointed out. 

He positioned himself close; if the angel wanted to reach out and touch him, it would be no hardship to do so. If the angel wanted to stand in a garden and hold hands until darkness fell, Crowley had two hands suitable for that purpose. And if the angel wanted to retire to the cottage interior and then engage in wings-out snogging until dawn… Well, that was a wonderful, new development in their relationship and Crowley would not voice a complaint.

The angel was too enraptured with his appreciation for the scene in front of them, however, to grab Crowley's hand. His stint as a gardener for the supposed Antichrist was still fresh in his mind. He kept pointing out different flowers and trees, decoding snippets of birdsong. 

"There!" Aziraphale exclaimed at one moment. "Do you see that rabbit?" He pulled Crowley close to him so that the demon could trace his eyes down the direction Aziraphale pointed to spot the vermin hopping away, as if the rustle in the tall grass was not obvious.

Crowley dutifully looked down the length of Aziraphale's arm and agreed that yes, it was a rabbit, but he refused to be excited about it. After a while, however, he suggested that they bring in the wine bottles and the rest of their provisions from home, put the Bentley in the garage, and maybe think about dinner.

Aziraphale reached for his hand as they turned back to the cottage in what felt like a natural gesture. Crowley stretching out his hand in response was equally authentic, but a rabbit -- or perhaps something larger than a rabbit -- darted noisily through the grass and Crowley jerked his hand away.

"Everything all right, Dearest?" asked Aziraphale to his startled face.

Crowley deepened his frown but bit back any snappy retort as he grabbed Aziraphale's hand. He was just surprised, after all. And there was wine in the Bentley.

Putting things away, as it turned out, was a bit distracting. Crowley stretched to put the tea on a high shelf, letting his t-shirt rise above his waistband while Aziraphale looked on. Aziraphale bent and twisted, putting the biscuits in a drawer, and bumped into Crowley who used the event to place a hand on Aziraphale's hips. The next thing they knew was how perfectly tall the countertop was for one of them to be pressed into and wings were out, knocking a few unbreakable things to the floor where they would be found and put away in the morning.

* * *

Deciding to play it by ear, Aziraphale suggested they walk back to the High Street for lunch on Saturday and to see what the town was like. He was thoroughly sick of riding in a car at the moment, and knew he'd need to subject himself to the experience again to return to town. But that was on Monday, days away. And, besides, the rental agent had recommended a few restaurants which had to have better food than anything they could prepare without resorting to miracles.

Crowley knew too well to expect anything else than a meal that sounded more appetizing on the menu than it tasted on the plate, but a good red wine could (miraculously) be found almost anywhere. And, really, he could skip eating entirely if someone would let him drink straight from the bottle. He could skip both if they could just flutter about in the kitchen like the night before.

Lunch was better than either expected. Then again, it had stopped being about the quality of the food a while ago. 

After the meal, they strolled down High Street, wandering into the shops like a human couple might do. Bike rentals, Aziraphale was pleased to discover, were available for an afternoon. He paid for two bikes before Crowley came out of the adjacent antique shop and could stop the transaction. 

They pedalled 25 minutes to the nearest open manor house and then wandered the grounds for a few hours. Aziraphale admired everything but Crowley was quick to correct him, pointing out a branch that spoiled the symmetry of an alley, the inexperienced pruning technique of a junior gardener, the lazy evergreens that weren't living up to their potential. Aziraphale didn't disagree with him outright, but his patronizing tone didn't convey his abject concurrence either.

After returning the rentals, they decided to have dinner in town before walking back to the cottage.

The walk back in the dark was just as enjoyable as the rest of the day. Their shoulders kept bumping into each other even though they were sober enough to walk a straight line. Crowley had pocketed his sunglasses and saw perfectly well in the dark, and Aziraphale decided that, for the moment, he could also see clearly. They talked of the past and future, places they had been and would like to revisit, and when Aziraphale could be disposed to leave the bookshop for an extended period. It was a pleasant night.

Finally the cottage came into view, lit from within and welcoming. Aziraphale sighed happily and stepped forward; it really was pretty.

Without warning, Crowley's hand shot out and gripped his arm. It was not like the soft touches they had practiced; it was harsh, a warning.

"Crowley?" the angel asked in mild confusion.

"We're not alone," he hissed. Loudly, he called out, "Show yourself!"

A figure began to materialize out of the darkness, swaying in the breeze like a reed. Red eyes flared and Aziraphale gasped. 

They knew, had always known that Heaven and Hell were not done with them. Defying orders, defying death could not be tolerated in perpetuity; it was only a matter of time before one of their former offices came back with a new plan for punishment. Honestly, given that they were immortal, Aziraphale expected it to take longer. 

Based on eye color alone, it looked like Hell had decided to act first, but Aziraphale had no idea which of the two they were after. 

The hold on Aziraphale's wrist tightened and twisted, almost as if Crowley was trying to push the angel back behind him. Aziraphale could feel Crowley warping and reforming under his skin, readying to fend off the attack. They had not bothered with such actions when their head offices had kidnapped them after the averted apocalypse. It had been hard enough for Aziraphale to reasonably mimic Crowley's mannerisms and speech in a human shaped body; there was no way he could have attempted more.

Now, however, with one demon revealed and who knew how many more lying in ambush, Aziraphale understood Crowley's instincts and felt himself begin to emit a defensive, divine glow. 

"Be gone" growled Crowley. "There will be no other warning."

The red eyes blinked a few times, swaying atop the slowly materializing body before taking a stumbling step and pitching forward to fall on its face. A scrap of dirty, white fabric fluttered to the ground beside it in surrender.

Aziraphale stood silently behind Crowley but his light grew brighter. 

"Do you, do you think it's injured?" Aziraphale asked after a period of observation. In the divine light bathing the figure, he could see the clothing was torn and soaked in blood.

"I think it's a trap," hissed Crowley. He tightened his hold as Aziraphale tried to get a closer look. "Stay back."

"I think it's injured," Aziraphale announced softly. He started to move past Crowley.

"I said _stay back_ ," his demon snapped at him.

"Don't worry, my dear," Aziraphale said, prying Crowley's fingers from his wrist. "I know you will look after me."

Not waiting for Crowley to agree to this, Aziraphale hurried to the prone figure. "He _is_ injured."

Crowley stalked toward him. "I told you to stay away from it."

Aziraphale paid the warning no mind and carefully flipped the demon over to see his face.

"Oh, Crowley, look at him," said Aziraphale. "He's practically dead."

"Angel, so help me --" Crowley grabbed his shoulders, ready to yank him a safe distance away. Then he saw the face of the wounded demon and did a very un-Crowley thing. He gasped, sincerely. "Oh, oh no."

* * *

Aziraphale carried the limp form of the demon into the cottage and to the bathroom. The tile work and hard surfaces would be easier to miracle clean if demon blood got on them.

"How exactly do you know him?" the angel asked for the tenth time.

"He's a demon," shouted Crowley from the front room where he was still applying protective sigils to the door and window frames. As lovely as the cottage was, it suddenly had far too many windows.

Knowing he'd only ruin the towels of the cottage if he used them, Aziraphale miracled a cloth and began to clean the demon's many wounds. 

"Does he have a name?" Aziraphale asked. 

"Not now!" snapped Crowley. "I need to concentrate." The last thing he wanted was to be responsible for a poorly crafted protection when they had no idea if anyone was actively hunting for them.

Aziraphale huffed into silence and focused on his task. There would be time enough for answers soon if they were all still alive.


	2. Renunciation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A & C provide aid and comfort to an injured demon.

By the time Crowley joined them in the previously spacious bathroom, the demon's face was clean although a cut at the hairline was still weeping blood. 

"Help me with his clothes?" the angel suggested as he kept a precarious hold of the unconscious demon. 

Crowley disposed of the tattered rags with a snap, leaving Aziraphale merely with a naked demon in his arms. As expected, there was more blood, deep gouges in the skin, and one puncture wound that appeared to go straight through from front to back. 

"Goral, what have you gone and done to yourself," Crowley muttered as he took in the sight.

"Goral?" Aziraphale repeated, grateful for some appellation beyond _poor dear_. "Is that his name? How do you know him?"

"Yes, Angel, his name is Goral," said Crowley, sounding sad. "He's a minor demon, nobody important compared to a duke or prince of Hell. Fit for nothing more than abject servitude."

"Did you know him well?"

Crowley made a face. "Hardly. I was on Earth most of the time, and he was never allowed to leave the Pits. But he always seemed fascinated by Earth when I saw him, always asking about it. I felt bad for him, but what could I do?"

By now, the body was relatively clean and Aziraphale had identified the most serious and pressing wounds.

"Hold him still for me. He might wake up or thrash about for this," the angel warned.

Crowley settled on the edge of the tub and took the body from Aziraphale. Then Aziraphale placed glowing hands on the demon's torso. Healing power soaked into the damaged corporation and the demon woke with a scream. Crowley tried to soothe him with a familiar voice but Goral couldn't hear it above the noise he was making, so Crowley merely tightened his grip until Aziraphale removed his hands and Goral stopped flailing. Thankfully, despite healed wounds, Goral was still quite weak and easily subdued. 

Finally he was able to take in his surroundings. While the bathroom and angel were unknown to him, he did recognize someone.

"Crowley!" he cried hoarsely. "Crowley, I found you!" He would have said more, but he started crying and laughing, and it was too much for a single throat to accommodate all at once. Then he winced in pain -- Aziraphale had healed him but not completely -- and clutched his side. 

Crowley tried to be comforting but that was always more of the angel's thing. Aziraphale stepped closer and tutted a gentle, "There, there, dear boy."

Goral regarded Aziraphale with growing awe. "You must be the angel," he breathed reverently. 

The two shared an uneasy look. 

Crowley ransacked his memories, trying to determine if he had ever mentioned Aziraphale while he was in Hell. He thought he had been careful, of _course_ he had been careful! Otherwise, his superiors would have become suspicious of their relationship long ago, before Crowley could have betrayed them. 

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably from what felt like adoration. He was an angel, but true adoration belonged to God alone. "There's no need for that," he said. "I am _an_ angel, just one of many."

"You are the Principality of Earth," Goral informed him, slipping off the edge of the tub to kneel before them. He grabbed a fistful of Aziraphale's pant leg and wrapped another hand around Crowley's ankle. 

"I claim sanctuary!" he cried.

* * *

Aziraphale busied himself in the kitchen making cocoa and setting out the packet of biscuits they had brought from home while Crowley dressed Goral in clean clothes. 

_Sanctuary._ What did that word even mean to a demon? And what had led this poor, mistreated being to think that Aziraphale could provide it?

When the two emerged with Goral wearing Crowley's pajamas, three mugs were waiting for them at the table.

As requested, the runaway demon took a seat and accepted the cup.

"Is this mud?" he asked, looking at the brown drink for the first time in his entire existence.

"No, it's called cocoa," said Crowley, "a human drink. It's meant to be warm and comforting."

The demon sipped the drink, then politely spat it back into the mug.

"There's no blood in this," he said.

"It's a human drink, no blood," Crowley explained.

"Blood?" repeated Aziraphale, slightly scandalized. "Do you drink blood?" he asked Crowley. In all the years they had shared meals and bottles and everything, Aziraphale had never seen Crowley consume something like that.

"Not in, like, four millennia. At least." Crowley was nonchalant about it. "Demons may talk about how good it tastes but I much prefer scotch or a red wine. And that whole business about drinking it while it's still warm is pure rubbish."

"Blood, like revenge, is best served cold," Goral noted. He took another sip and let the liquid rest on his tongue before swallowing it. "This is not bad," he decided now that he was no longer comparing it to a demonic toddy.

Aziraphale eased into a seat across from the new arrival. "Now, Goral," he said, "if you could tell us what is going on, I'm sure that would be very helpful." He had no idea what the two demons had discussed while Crowley was pulling out pajamas but it couldn't have been much.

"I renounce Satan."

It was amazing the impact of those three little words. There was a noticeable uptick in pressure in the air, increasing until they could all feel it on their skin; there was a whine just past their hearing that grew louder, like bass vibrations that could pulse a heart. Then it burst like a bubble, sending ripples out through every dimension and plane of existence. It was the sort of shockwave that a particularly sensitive witch or former Antichrist might detect all the way in Oxfordshire. It was the sort of rumble that would be felt in Heaven and Hell, leading demonic predators to their door.

Crowley slid into the chair next to Aziraphale before his legs dumped him on the floor. Whatever hope he might have held of hiding the runaway or sending him on before Hell figured out where to look vanished. "You what?" he snapped.

"Look," Goral said, hunching his shoulders defensively. "What you did, Crowley? The story of what you did has made it to the deepest, darkest Pit. It's all we talk about now: how you defied Hell, averted the apocalypse, saved the Earth, prevented a war, rejected the devil himself. You and your angel --" he gestured to Aziraphale. 

"I'll admit that I was actually looking forward to the last battle, not because I had any hope of surviving it. In fact, just the opposite. I've been stuck in that Pit since the Fall, just suffering in whatever way would please my masters. The one good thing about Armageddon was that this agony would be over," Goral continued, taking another sip from his mug. "At least when an angel killed me -- really smited me, you understand -- that there would be no coming back. I'd be deader than dead, no more rebirth into torture. But you took that from me, and you gave me something even more wonderful in its place."

The demon's face was shining with something like hero worship. Aziraphale struggled to remember that Crowley and Goral Fell at the same time, had both spent the last six millennia as demons. If anything, Goral should appear older for all that he endured while Crowley had spent a growing portion of his time shirking evil-doing, but there was a certain naivété in Goral.

"And when Hell came for you to punish you, you didn't run. You stood your ground and let them take you, knowing you were immune to the worst Hell could think to do to you. You are a symbol, Crowley, a symbol of hope for all of us stuck in the Pits. We don't need to serve in Hell. We don't need to suffer the cruel whims of stronger demons. We can be free, just as you are, here on Earth."

Aziraphale knew he was gaping, just as he knew Crowley was doing no better. 

"And so I've run away from Hell," said Goral, "to find you and beg for sanctuary. You must protect me, and in exchange I'll do whatever you want."

Aziraphale wanted to say something, but the words that Goral wanted to hear felt like they were in conflict with the words that threatened to fall off his tongue. Unfortunately, Crowley was even more speechless, laying his forehead down on the table.

"You will protect me, won't you?" Goral asked after the silence lasted too long.

Crowley abruptly pushed away from the table and stood up. "Angel, a word," he said as he trailed out of the room.

Aziraphale watched him briefly move to another room in the cottage before turning back to their unexpected guest. "Forgive me but my associate and I need to discuss something in private. Can you please stay in the kitchen and give us a minute?" He offered the biscuits to Goral. Then he remembered the original reaction to the cocoa and added a few words of explanation in case the inexperienced demon didn't understand human food either. 

Crowley was in one of the bedrooms. As soon as Aziraphale was in the room with the door shut behind him, Crowley's fists were gripping his lapels. Aziraphale began to wonder if the demon was about to push him against the wall but before the thought could fully form, Crowley was sagging against him, threatening to fall to the floor and take Aziraphale with him. 

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon, bracing him, keeping them both from collapsing. 

"We are _fucked_ ," Crowley declared in a harsh whisper. 

"There, there," Aziraphale said meaninglessly. It was the angel's nature to disagree with the demon, but in this instance he worried that Crowley had the right of it.

"Did you hear him?" Crowley continued. "He thinks we're saviors. He's rejecting Hell because he thinks we can protect him."

Crowley kept ranting and Aziraphale kept holding him upright. They had hoped that, once they had fooled their respective sides that they would have peace. They were not stupid enough to think that it would last forever, but at least a century! This respite had been less than a year, barely three months. To an immortal being, that was hardly any time at all. 

True, they had been living on Earth among humans, to whom three months could make a world of difference. But they had squandered their time, content to let existence unfold at its own pace on the mistaken impression that they'd have enough time for what they wanted.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale broke in delicately. He couldn't help but feel guilty at the unspoken and unintentional accusation: they had squandered their time and it was Aziraphale's fault. He had always been the brake to Crowley's accelerator, typically out of fear but recently out of a desire to savor. Whatever should have happened next was gone now. 

Crowley gazed at him, trying to figure out why he had interrupted and what he was asking about before ignoring it.

"Hell is going to destroy us both," he said instead. "They think defenseless, little demons look up to us? That those demons will renounce Satan because of us? Hell will not stand for it. Goral gave them our location with his renunciation; I'm sure they're already on their way here. The protections on the cottage won't hold forever. They'll find a way in and then they'll have us. They are going to make an example of us, an example so horrific that it will be the only thing demons like Goral talk about for millennia. They aren't going to stop with just hellfire and holy water; they are going to throw everything they have at us until our very names are erased from existence!"

Aziraphale sighed and adjusted his hold on Crowley. The demon no longer hung like an anchor but merely swayed on his feet. 

"Dearest, we had forgotten -- I had forgotten -- that this was always a possibility," he said, feeling fatalistically blunt in the face of Crowley's dramatic display. One could not run counter to the Great Plan with impunity. 

Crowley looked at him, an immeasurable weight of sadness in his eyes. "Do you regret any of it?"

That was a loaded question, and a truly honest answer would be ill-timed. If Hell was going to destroy them tonight, neither of them needed that honesty now. "What could I possibly regret?" It wasn't a lie but a deflection and, as an angel, he had no difficulty in doing that. "Except, we do need to get ready. We do need to warn Goral. We can't stay here in this room and just wait for the end to come to us. I don't want to go down without a fight. If Hell is coming for us to make an example of those that cross them, I want victory to cost them mightily so that they will think twice before they try to drag anybody else back to Hell. I want them to rue this day. And if this is the end for us, I'd rather die by your side." He patted Crowley's cheek. "Are you with me?"

Crowley curled into him and took a shuddering breath then nodded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They just... just wanted to have a nice little minibreak.


	3. The Enemy of My Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparing to go down fighting, our pair is rescued by an ally of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the shortest chapter, but hopefully you still like it.

Goral had eaten all the biscuits by the time they returned to the kitchen, including a second box that he must have miracled to the cottage. He had also drunk all the cocoa from his mug, and from theirs. He looked at them with hopeful puppy dog eyes, if puppies had red eyes. 

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"Now we wait and prepare," said Aziraphale wearily. "Hell, I'm afraid, will not take your defection lying down. We expect they'll come for you, and us as well. It's going to be a long and painful night, with no promise of the sunrise. Now, I'm going to start filling pots and pans, and blessing it into holy water. I want you and Crowley out of the kitchen, just in case. Help him however you can."

Goral looked at them in confusion. "Are you serious? You… you're supposed to protect me."

"And we are trying to protect you," Aziraphale affirmed stiffly. "But I don't know how successful we'll be. I'm not exactly affiliated with Heaven anymore. After thwarting the apocalypse, we're not on friendly terms, rather like Crowley with the bosses Down Below. You have asked for sanctuary and we will provide it to the best of our abilities, but it is just us. It's not like I can simply call Heaven and ask them to pop in for a bit of smiting as a consolation for missing the main event months ago."

"Really?" This was Crowley.

"Yes, really," Aziraphale said at once but the challenge on Crowley's face stopped him. 

The demon obviously thought it was an idea worth pursuing. After all, they couldn't get more doomed than they already were. 

"The last time they saw me, they tried hellfire. What makes you think they'll even take my call now or agree to help me out? They will probably decide to thank Down Below for ridding them of an inconvenience. Our time is better spent shoring up our defenses."

But Crowley was, on the whole, more optimistic than Aziraphale. Now that he'd purged himself of hysterics, if there was a glimmer of hope, he would move toward it. "Angel, please, you have to try. Goral and I can fill the pots while you draw the summoning circle."

"And what am I to draw with?" Aziraphale asked. "It's not like we packed chalk for a minibreak!"

"Here you go," said Goral, miracling a stick of white chalk into his hand.

Aziraphale stared at it for a bit until he began to feel stupid, then took it and left the room. The sitting room had wood floors and would be more receptive to his drawing.

He wasted no time in rolling back the rug and beginning to sketch. The trouble, he knew, would come when he needed to draw the detailed symbols at various points along the perimeter of the summoning circle. The circle in his shop was a permanent fixture; he didn't bother drawing it every time. He'd have to sketch the sigils from memory and hope that his errors were still close enough to reach some part of Heaven. 

"Candles!" he called out, realizing that he needed some.

Goral scurried over to him, water clearly spilled down the front of his shirt, and handed the angel a bundle of candles.

Rather than accept the materials, Aziraphale directed Goral to place the candles in position and light them. As the runaway demon lit the last taper, Aziraphale stood up and tried to admire his own handiwork.

"Do you think it will work?" asked Crowley, emerging from the kitchen.

"It's demonic chalk, and demonic candles," pointed out Aziraphale, "and I don't know if I got the symbols right. Or that anyone would answer if they knew it was me." He didn't like his odds.

"Come on, Angel. Have a little faith." Crowley gave his hand a damp squeeze. 

Aziraphale wanted to cling to that hand but it was an inappropriate time for such behavior. "Yes," he said, more to remind himself that he agreed with the principle of it. "Faith." He still had faith in God although his faith in angels was gravely shaken. 

He readied his mind for the incantation. Just as he opened his mouth, the entire room was filled with blinding light. The demons threw their hands up to protect their eyes but Aziraphale stared unflinchingly at the radiance as figures materialized around them. 

Quickly the glow faded to reveal a small detachment of angels dressed for battle with wings unfurled, heavenly armor protecting their corporations, and weapons in their hands. In the center of the room and no doubt leading them was Michael, looking every inch a warrior archangel. 

The angelic troops wasted no time in subduing the three in the room. The demons ended up on their knees in short order with numerous sharp and pointy edges pinning them in place. Aziraphale, whose own wings had popped out in the excitement, was also detained but more gently since he was an angel which, as far as they knew, made him one of them. 

Michael assessed the situation with professional detachment until she spotted the Principality. "What do you think you are doing here?" she spat. 

Aziraphale felt dumbstruck. He had intended to summon help, but he had not thought to aim so high as Michael. And he had yet to begin the incantation when the room had suddenly filled with angelic warriors. Whatever had brought the archangel to the cottage, it was not his doing.

"These are angels too?" asked Goral reverently.

"Yes," answered Crowley. But these were not the good kind of angels, if he was being honest. These were the sort to smite first and ask questions later, after Crowley and Goral were mere memories. It felt like the plan had suddenly gone from bad to worse. 

The archangel turned her fearsome gaze on him. "Crowley," she sneered. "I should have guessed you'd be here although I had thought you had renounced the Prince of Darkness when Armageddon failed. So if not you, then who?"

Crowley grunted and Goral inched forward to bow and scrape within as much space as was allowed him by the swords and spears of the angels holding him. "That would be me," the red-eyed demon volunteered. 

"He found us and beseeched us for sanctuary," Aziraphale said, finding his voice at last. He shook loose of the hands that held him and moved to stand between Michael and the two captive demons. He trusted that the swords and spears pointed at Crowley and Goral wouldn't act without Michael's explicit instruction, but perhaps she had given it beforehand.

"You are in no position to offer sanctuary," she told him, stalking forward. 

"I am hardly in a position _to refuse_ even though I may not be able to ensure his safety," said Aziraphale. "That is, I have not received notice that Heaven has appointed a new principality."

"Appointed a new…? Really? You think Heaven cares about what happens on Earth right now?" the archangel scoffed, filling the air with righteous fury. "We're only here because we felt the renunciation and knew that Hell would not willingly release a prisoner. We have been spoiling for a fight since you ruined it for us and we will not be denied this time."

She stepped closer until her wings loomed over Aziraphale, leaning forward to whisper in his ear. "Unless you have it under control, Principality? I could always have my troops stand down until you are dead, then swoop in to finish it. Two birds with one stone."

Aziraphale really wished Crowley would speak up, because he felt unequal to the task of bargaining for their lives. This was the perfect job for Crowley! He could tempt and twist like anything, but perhaps that was not the safest way forward right now. The archangel was in an ill humor and would not appreciate a demon's words.

"But now that you are h-here, you, you have to protect them," Aziraphale stuttered. "You have to realize what it meant for Crowley to survive the failed apocalypse and the trial that followed." He didn't dare mention his own trial in front of the other angels in case it was not common knowledge. "The story of his defiance is an inspiration to others like Goral, demons who take no pleasure in Hell. Goral has run away, he has renounced the devil. If you let demons destroy Goral and Crowley now, you're giving Satan exactly what he wants," Aziraphale reasoned. "Surely you're smarter than that."

A tic in Michael's cheek told him that his last words had gone too far. He could feel her blade press against him, just below his ribs and angled upward. 

"And why should I suffer to let you live, Principality?" she asked in a low voice that nonetheless was heard by every being in the room. 

"If, if, if it is God's will," Aziraphale stuttered. After everything, he didn't question God but he did wonder repeatedly about those that interpreted Her will.

The point of Michael's sword twisted as she gave him a measuring glare. Then the pressure was gone and Michael stepped back, barking orders to the soldiers who leapt to obey her commands.

Aziraphale found that he could not pay attention, the sounds faded to white noise, the bodies blurred into shapes and colors. Then Crowley was there in his field of vision, calling to him and squeezing his arm, trying to pull him back from wherever his mind had gotten lost. 

By then, most of the angels were gone and Goral as well. A few angels remained to stand guard over the pair. In case there was mischief, they bound Crowley with a divine rope. After he was successfully trussed, they tied up Aziraphale in similar fashion. 

Sounds of battle drifted through the windows, and odd patterns of light and shadow threw macabre scenes into the room. There were screams occasionally and inhuman howls, and a shrieking, demonic laugh that might have belonged to Goral as he saw his tormentors crumble to ash. 

"Angel, are you still with me?" Crowley asked during a lull in the commotion.

He nodded shakily, not daring to imagine the scene outside the cottage yet still understanding too well what was going on. "I'm here."

"And you still have no regrets?" his friend asked.

They were neither of them dead yet. Nor was Goral if that burst of maniacal cackling from outside was anything to go by. Heaven realized that Crowley's life was worth preserving, and practically admitted that God Herself saw no reason to end Aziraphale's existence. And while he was presently terrified, every second increased the odds that they might survive this. 

"No," he answered honestly.

"Bully for you," said the demon, "because if we survive this, I have a long list of regrets that you are going to hear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it was funny to use angels for the deus ex machina.


	4. Perfect Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is ended, and some moments are worth remembering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little softness?

Michael was euphoric. She entered the room and walked straight to Aziraphale, pulling him up to a standing position and kissing him on both cheeks. She was too pleased with existence to notice the demon blood she left on Aziraphale's jacket or face. 

"That was… exquisite," she said, buzzing with happiness, "everything the last battle should have been albeit on a much smaller scale. Those who did not receive the call to arms will be sorely disappointed when they hear of our victory. You are free to go."

At that, the cords that bound Aziraphale and Crowley went slack and dropped to the floor. 

She held out a small card. "If you are approached by another runaway, use this sigil to contact me directly," she told him, giving him time to look at the figure and commit it to memory before the card disappeared in a flash of white. "I'm going to leave a few angels to watch over the three of you, in case there's a delayed ambush or further retaliation but otherwise I think my work here is done. You are free to take your charges and go, Principality, and I will include a positive note about your compliance in my official report."

"Wait. My charges?" repeated Aziraphale as he realized that she was including more than Crowley. "You are going to leave Goral here? I thought, I thought after the battle that you'd take Goral with you, given how he participated."

Michael's good humor visibly faded. "Goral is more mascot than soldier," she said. "And he's still a demon. He's not welcome back in Heaven. Besides, Principality, did you not agree to protect him?" she threw his own words back at him. 

With that, blinding flashes announced the departure of each angelic soldier as well as the arrival of the sentries who took positions around the exterior and in the living room of the cottage.

Goral was surprisingly not traumatized by the battle he had just witnessed. It was merely another day for him, no more traumatizing than the last 6,000 years. He sat in the kitchen and miracled himself more biscuits and cocoa, heedless of the blood and viscera that were splattered on him until Aziraphale took command and ordered him to take a bath. 

Then Aziraphale had to stay in the bathroom with him for a bit to explain that human baths consisted of warm water, soap, and other things, and how they all worked. While Goral was splashing about, Aziraphale washed the demon blood from his face and miracled it from his jacket as well as cleaned the clothes that Goral had temporarily discarded.

As Goral seemed to enjoy the tub, Aziraphale briefly left him unattended to go downstairs and straighten up the kitchen. The mugs, however, were all washed and drying on a towel by the sink. He thought it must be Crowley's doing; the angels would probably just miracle away the mess, and possibly the mugs as well.

By then, Goral was ready to get out. There was drying him and getting him back into the borrowed clothing, which he seemed to have figured out from Crowley, and a comb, which made him flinch as Aziraphale pulled it through his hair. 

"Now what?" inquired the demon.

"Aren't you tired?" asked Aziraphale. "Just a little bit?" The angel was uncharacteristically exhausted. The skirmich had lasted nearly a full day; the sun had risen and set again. Crowley loved to sleep; maybe this other demon would too. 

But nothing was easy with Goral. Aziraphale had to show him to the unoccupied bedroom, and then show him how to lay on the bed between layers of sheets and blankets. In the end, Aziraphale told him to lay down with his eyes shut until someone came to wake him, then crept out of the room and sighed wearily. 

The other bedroom door was shut with no light shining under the door to signal that the occupant was still awake. Aziraphale knocked lightly on the door anyway, thinking that Crowley was more than capable of ignoring the noise if he was already asleep or didn't want to talk. 

There was a faint shuffling in the room and then the door opened a crack. Crowley's yellow eyes peered out. He grunted in acknowledgement before backing away and leaving the door ajar.

Aziraphale pushed himself into the room as Crowley sprawled across the mattress. 

The demon didn't verbally invite him in, didn't attempt to make his friend comfortable, didn't budge in the slightest to make room for him on the bed. But, Aziraphale noted, Crowley had not slammed the door in his face. Perhaps that was all the welcome he should expect at this point. 

"In all my research, I had thought that minibreaks were supposed to be more relaxing than this," he tried at levity but the attempt fell flat. 

Crowley pulled up on his elbows to glare at him from over his shoulder. The look was slightly hostile but it somehow left an open spot on the bed, just large enough for Aziraphale to perch on the edge. 

"Look, I realize you must be tired, but you said earlier you wanted to talk, tell me your regrets," Aziraphale blundered on. "I don't know what is going to happen, what we're going to do with Goral or the bodyguards that Michael has assigned to us, but if you want to yell at me now, I'm listening."

Crowley flopped over onto his back. "I don't want to yell at you, Angel," he sighed. There was no fight in him. "We could have died... again. I just thought we'd have more time."

Aziraphale thought that he understood that feeling, the strange sensation for an immortal being to run out of time. "We certainly live exciting lives," he agreed. He scooted a little further into the bed now that there was more room for him. 

Crowley made no reply, just stared vacantly at the ceiling. 

"I feel rather foolish," Aziraphale rambled, trying to fill the silence. "It never occurred to me that you had, had renounced anything at the apocalypse. Something like that should have been more momentous but, then again, it was all so intense at the time, so many big things happening at once that one couldn't keep them all straight."

Crowley blew out a sigh. "I was more worried about the impending aftermath to revel in it. And besides, I had been slowly renouncing for centuries. Vaguely sauntering as it were."

Aziraphale wanted to say something encouraging, like that he always knew Crowley had some good in him, but the demon never seemed to appreciate that. 

"So those regrets you mentioned earlier?" Aziraphale prompted instead. He sat back and leaned against the headboard; it had been a long day. 

Crowley was silent for a while, gathering his thoughts. For once, Aziraphale just kept quiet.

"D'you ever keep a diary, Angel?" 

It was an odd question but Aziraphale gave it full consideration before answering. "I keep meticulous notes of miracles for my reports, and I keep accounting records for the shop," he said, "but I'd much rather read about other people's lives than write about my own. Besides, it's not like my normal routine is all that interesting, with a few very notable exceptions."

"I don't either," Crowley said, which didn't explain why he asked about it. "After a few thousand years, days tend to blur together. But there are a few events that stand out after six millennia, you know? Days or moments I wish I could preserve for eternity. But why, if they were so perfect, would I take time away from them to scribble something down about them?

"The good news is that there are so few perfect moments, they are not hard to remember," Crowley hummed. 

"Such as?" Aziraphale watched his friend closely, not knowing where this was going. A perfect day didn't seem like the sort of thing to regret.

"Such as when you told me you gave away your flaming sword," Crowley immediately replied. His lips curved into a smirk. 

"What! That was an awful day! Humanity had fallen from grace and was thrown out of Eden," Aziraphale said. 

"Yeah," Crowley agreed. "They were doomed and yet you didn't give up on them. You still did your best to save and protect them. Makes you wonder if that's why God let you stay on this planet for so long, knowing that you'd choose them over the archangels' interpretation of Her plans."

Aziraphale was struck dumb. He had always looked upon that event with uneasiness and shame. To hear Crowley's spin on it changed things in his mind. 

"What else?" he said after Crowley had not volunteered more perfect days.

"No. It's your turn," Crowley countered as if he had been expecting him. 

"The first time we ate together," Aziraphale remembered fondly. "Neither of us tried to discorporate the other."

"The first time I fell asleep in your shop," added the demon. "It wasn't until I woke up the next morning that I realized you could have just killed me in my sleep."

Aziraphale looked offended. "That was merely two hundred years ago. Surely you trusted me by then."

"Of course I trusted you," Crowley snapped. He rolled closer to glare disdainfully. "I trusted you implicitly. That was the point. That was me realizing the point."

"Oh." 

Aziraphale mentally kicked himself for not thinking of a more articulate reply. 

"All those times you saved my corporation," the angel finally said. There had been so many times over the millennia that Crowley had appeared as if summoned in the nick of time. 

"That impromptu double date with those two humans," Crowley said, no longer meeting Aziraphale's eye. 

"That was only last week," the angel chided him. "Surely you can remember their names."

"I could if I wanted to," Crowley agreed truculently. The names of the humans had been immaterial to the memory, to what made it special. He traced patterns with his fingers in the stitching of the bedspread and stared at Aziraphale's hand where it lay nearby.

"It does not sound like much regret," Aziraphale observed with a soft smile. 

Crowley looked up at him. As close as they were, it felt like an impossibly far distance. "I am not one for grand and absolute gestures," he began, but Aziraphale immediately interrupted him. 

"Crowley, Dearest," he laughed, "you are perfectly dramatic when it suits you." The demon kept a throne in his old flat, for pity's sake!

The demon glowered sullenly until the angel decided to swallow his mirth, then rolled so his back was to Aziraphale, brushing up against the angel's leg and effectively crowding him on the mattress.

Aziraphale tried not to smile, but he found Crowley's behavior so entertaining that his lips moved on their own. The demon's appearance was equally adorable: the textbook depiction of aggrieved with only a few tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles to spoil the look. 

Aziraphale apologized and combed his fingers through Crowley's hair to organize the wayward tufts. Crowley went rigid beside him, made all the more obvious by their physical contact. 

"Oh!" Aziraphale exclaimed softly, yanking back his hand as if it burned. "Oh my, I didn't mean to upset you." 

He tried to get off the bed, to get out of the room, but Crowley rolled again and pinned his legs. Crowley looked up at him, face unreadable, eyes blazing.

"I didn't say that you should stop, Angel," he growled.

"Oh," Aziraphale said again, more breathy this time. The demon wanted him to continue? "I don't want to annoy you…"

"Then do it right," Crowley huffed and rolled off him, barely. His spine was still pressed against Aziraphale's leg, his hair even more mussed. 

Aziraphale tentatively stretched his hand out again and began to thread his fingers through Crowley's red hair. As before, the demon stiffened but then, unlike before, he relaxed. Aziraphale drew his fingers along the demon's scalp repeatedly and they both slipped into a meditative state. 

Aziraphale could feel Crowley shifting beneath the surface of his corporation, bones softening, joints loosening, returning to their usual alignment. Crowley drifted off to sleep, slowly melting into the bedspread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bits of this story are just the two of them coping with having another demon to care for in the middle of what should be a two-entity relationship. So far, so good?


	5. Shadow of Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is assigned a bodyguard, and then ditches her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a crappy day. I'd like a little something nice, so I'm posting early.

Archangel Gabriel strode into the cottage bedroom as if he owned it. 

"Good morning!" he greeted cheerfully and loudly, waking the two figures in the bed.

"Gabriel!" Aziraphale squeaked groggily in alarm. He tried to get up but he was currently pinned under a demon. Crowley hissed. 

"No, no, don't get up on my account," the archangel said. "I've read Michael's report. Impressive battle. I came down to debrief the other demon, so it only seems fair that I talk to you while I'm here."

"What do you want?" Crowley snarled. 

"I want Armageddon," the archangel retorted, "but I will take what I can get. Which is beginning to feel surprisingly close to Armageddon except on a smaller scale." Gabriel's smile was wide and gloating. "And I suppose I have you two to thank for that, but considering that you are responsible for us being in this mess, I'm going to hold my applause."

"Why are you here, Gabriel?" asked Aziraphale, feeling some dread.

"I am here to inform you of what the archangels have decided to do about your situation. Namely, that you will be provided with two angelic guards to protect the demons in case Hell tries to kill them again. As I believe you convinced Michael, the Serpent is now a symbol of rebellion against the Devil and will inspire other demons, like the Ferret down the hall, to renounce. That means fewer demons to support Hell in the final battle. And if even more demons attempt to drag those traitors back to Hell, Michael's troops stand ready to fight, which means even fewer demons survive to fight in the final battle. It's a total win for us."

Aziraphale thought back to Crowley's reaction from two nights ago: _We are fucked._ They were fucked indeed. 

"So I'm supposed to spend the rest of eternity with an angelic shadow?" Crowley groused.

"Don't complain, demon," the archangel replied. "You were already planning to spend eternity that way." Gabriel looks pointedly at Aziraphale to make his meaning clear. "And this protection is only for as long as Heaven deems there is an imminent threat to your existence and you remain of strategic importance to us. Obviously we don't want to waste resources protecting something of no value to us. But until then, both the Serpent and the Ferret -- and any other demon that renounces -- will receive a bodyguard to protect them from the forces of Hell."

"So why do I need someone other than Aziraphale to guard me, and why doesn't he have his own protection?"

"Aziraphale shouldn't need his own protection," Gabriel said in a condescending tone. "He's still an angel. He should be smiting demons, not consorting with them. But he's grown a little soft --"

"He's not soft!" Crowley quickly contradicted.

"Demon, you were using him as a pillow when I arrived. Don't get me wrong," said Gabriel as if oversharing, "right now, the archangels see this as a numbers game. How many do we have on the side of Heaven versus the side of Hell? Having Aziraphale on our side is a positive, although not as positive as any other angel I could name. To be blunt, we don't trust him to have what it takes to defend you, not for as long as we need."

"How long will that be?" Aziraphale asked. He had grown so accustomed to the negativity and condescension over the millennia that it barely registered anymore. 

Gabriel shrugged indifferently. "Time is such a human concept, I have no idea. Five days? Five decades? We'll figure it out as we go. Obviously, if more demons break free of Hell's authority, then your demon will remain important to us. The angels assigned to guard the Ferret and the Serpent will send for reinforcements at the first sign of more trouble or even if just another refugee appears, but I'm told that Michael gave you a sigil to contact her directly if needed."

The archangel wasn't exactly asking a question, but the curve of his brow prompted Aziraphale to nod in agreement.

"Excellent! Then my work here is done." Gabriel smiled beautifically at them. "And, as a show of good faith, we're miracling away all the damage and blood from the battle outside.

"Now, try to stay out of trouble, you two," he said playfully as he turned to leave. It was just a game to him, and if Crowley or Aziraphale were maimed or killed in the middle of it, he wouldn't have much to complain about.

* * *

The Bentley purred to a stop in front of A. Z. Fell and Co. To any human observers, there were plainly two men in the front seat and one in the back. Inside the car was a different reality.

The angelic bodyguards sat in the back seat, sandwiching Goral and still dressed in their robes and armor. It had been impossible to talk them into less noteworthy attire during the drive. Aziraphale only hoped that seeing the sheer number of people walking around the streets of London would convince the two to fit in. (He was aware of the irony of his own dated wardrobe, but at least it was all made by human hands.)

"Here we are!" he announced. "I suppose I will see everyone tomorrow." 

That was what they had agreed to: Chripheala would keep constant watch over Goral while Merciael kept guard over Crowley. And due to the wards on the shop, Aziraphale would be perfectly safe alone. Crowley had wanted to stay in Aziraphale's flat, but that meant Merciael would be there too, and Crowley wouldn't stand for that. So now the two were going to spend their first night apart since the world nearly ended. Not like they actually spent the night in the same bed or anything like that (last night excepting), but their joint presence was a comfort to them both. 

"Let me get the bags for you, Angel," Crowley offered and grabbed the door handle. 

Behind him, Merciael copied the movement.

He hissed at her. "Stay put," he commanded. "You'll see me clearly through the windows. No need to get out of the car and raise questions. And you can leap out in plenty of time if any demon appears." He glared at her through the rearview mirror until her hands returned to her lap. He sighed, terribly put upon, and got out of the car.

He pulled both bags out of the trunk and brought them to the door which Aziraphale was ostensibly unlocking. 

Aziraphale took notice of the bags and said, "Aren't you going to need your bag for tonight?" He kept his voice down and spoke over his shoulder. It would be very difficult for anyone to overhear him.

"I hope so," replied Crowley, equally discreet. "Stay up for me."

The meaning behind the words hit Aziraphale immediately. He spun around to confront the demon. "You're not thinking of --"

Crowley cut him off with a kiss before Aziraphale could say anything. "I'll be perfectly safe, won't set a foot outside without an extra pair of wings. Good night, Angel."

With that, he got back in the car and zipped into traffic, headed to Mayfair. 

"What was that?" Chripheala asked baldly.

"The kiss?" Crowley didn't feel like being obtuse just now. "It's a human custom. We're pretending to be a human couple, and that is one thing that human couples do. You three had better be quick studies of human behavior if you expect to fit in. How to speak, how to act, how to dress, you'll need to master all of it, and sharpish. Either that or you'll need to stay invisible or out of sight your entire time here."

He then proceeded to lecture them -- the angels were now in a more receptive mood having seen more humans walking and driving in town -- on assimilating into human society until he parked his car once more. 

"Alright," he said. "My flat is heavily warded. None of you will be able to get in until I fix that. You can come watch or wait in the car til I'm done."

Merciael declared that she was going with him, of course. The other two decided to tag along.

The wards took nearly a half-hour to rewrite. Crowley could have done it faster but that would have involved wiping them completely and building them back up rather than editing what he already had. And he didn't want to leave himself exposed even for a minute. 

A quick miracle cleaned up all signs of the aborted renovation that provided an excuse for him to stay above the bookshop. It was strange being back after so many months. The apartment had been spartan before but at least there had been plants. Now it was otherworldly to him, and not in a good way.

Goral, on the other hand, saw it differently. "You live here?" he said with awe in his voice. "All this space? And so clean?"

With a gesture of invitation from Crowley to see the place for himself, Goral took off down the hall and through doorways, investigating the apartment. Chripheala trailed after him warily while Merciael stood one step behind and to the right of Crowley. 

He glared at her over the top of his glasses. "You don't need to hover over me in here," he said. "Inspect the wards for yourself. You'll see it's safe. Zira and I have been doing this a long time."

Merciael returned his look briefly before turning her attentions to the protections on Crowley's flat. 

The demon rolled his eyes. Had the bodyguard displayed any likeable personality, he might feel bad for how he was going to give her the slip later.

"Anything to eat or drink?" he said instead, raising his voice to be heard by the other two.

Goral popped out of the spare bedroom. "Cocoa?" he said hopefully. "And biscuits?"

"Right," Crowley muttered to himself. 

* * *

Goral was seated in front of the television, watching a program called Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Crowley had stumbled across it once and had immediately confronted the angel who confirmed that yes, Heaven had a hand in it. He had been furious at the time and had channeled that fury into some highly diabolical children's programming, but right now, it felt like a good primer for a demon like Goral. He had miracled the screen to show that program and only that program for as long as Goral cared to watch it.

"I'm going to take a shower," Crowley told them, "and then I'm going to bed. Watch as much of the show as you like. I'll see you all in the morning."

Merciael started to protest but he wasn't having it. 

"No, you may not watch me shower or watch me sleep," he said emphatically. "You've inspected the wards; you know we're safe. Staying in my flat is as close as you get."

"There is an extra ward in your bedroom," the bodyguard pointed out, "in the closet. Only you and the principality can cross it. If something happens and you go in there, I will not be able to follow."

"Yes, but it's in my bedroom, in my flat," Crowley reasoned. He tried not to sound cross and condescending, but he was a demon out of his routine. "What is going to possibly happen?"

Merciael set her mouth in a thin line but didn't speak. 

"Thank you," Crowley said with a mocking bow and left them to the children's programming.

* * *

Aziraphale had recast the wards, unpacked his bag, read through the mail, listened to the phone messages, and dusted and swept. He had thought about dinner but decided against it. He could eat but, without Crowley for company, it wasn't satisfying. 

A floorboard creaked above his head, instantly drawing his attention. 

"Is anybody there?" he called out. 

It could only be Crowley, using the secret passage hidden in his closet to sneak between their two flats. Still he felt the need to check. He trotted up the stairs at double his usual speed and found Crowley lounging against the doorframe of his room.

"Good evening, Angel. Did you miss me?"

Aziraphale thought the answer was obvious, and he wasn't about to give the demon satisfaction. "What are you doing here? What if you get caught?"

"I'm a demon," Crowley reminded him. "I'm supposed to break the rules and get in trouble. Besides, the idiots have no idea I'm here. As far as they know, I'm asleep in my own bed back in Mayfair."

"Well, you need to stay there," cautioned Aziraphale. "Don't set a foot in this hallway. I don't want to be responsible for putting you in danger by bringing you to Soho. As long as you stay in that room, you are still technically in Mayfair."

Of the two, Aziraphale was always the one who obeyed rules and complied with expectations, and Crowley had used that to his advantage. "I'm afraid I feel a terrible temptation to be in Soho just now," he said. "I think you'll need to thwart me to keep me here."

Aziraphale blinked and tried to speak, but it took him a while to come up with words. "Stay right there," he choked out at last. "I have a bottle I've been saving for a special occasion, and tonight is the night."


	6. Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pair mentally prepare for a serious disruption to their peaceful lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I wrote this in a pandemic, and was the kind of person who checked the numbers everyday to see how many people had died?
> 
> Not a very valentine-y chapter, IMO, but hopefully you'll find a little sweetness.

Aziraphale settled back against the black headboard of Crowley's bed, and the two drank their wine in companionable silence. 

"I suppose we need to get out of London with all due speed," he hummed eventually. "Find someplace remote, no humans at all."

"What? Why?" Crowley protested. _All due speed_ sounded a lot like _right now_ and he was just getting comfortable amid the blankets and the angel.

"Did you see the mess from all the fighting at the cottage?" Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "Both sides nearly razed everything before Heaven restored it. Can you imagine if the next demon comes to Soho and renounces before we can get them clear of the area? With all those angels and demons pouring in to fight each other, we won't need an Apocalypse to destroy the world."

"You don't want to leave here yet. You love the bookshop." They had talked of leaving London for a while. It would need to be long enough that when they returned, everyone who knew them would either be dead or too old to suspect the pair were the same ageless beings. But one weekend minibreak was hardly enough for Aziraphale to make peace with his exile.

"I love Earth," said Aziraphale. "And the humans. And a great many other things besides. It will be best if we go somewhere with fewer innocent bystanders, don't you think? At least temporarily? And it's not as if I'm going naked and alone into the wilderness. I'm bringing my books. And you'll be there too. Home is where we make it."

Crowley didn't disagree. He was just a little surprised by how readily Aziraphale had updated his thinking. 

As immortal, miraculous beings, they could survive just about anywhere. They didn't need much in the way of shelter from heat or cold; they didn't need food or drink or rest. They could survive in the most extreme and inhospitable places on Earth and beyond, but life would be considerably less enjoyable in such a place. 

But it wasn't really about comfort or enjoyment right now. And it wouldn't be for a while, or perhaps ever again.

"How much time do you suppose we have?" Aziraphale asked when he finished his drink. He set the empty glass on the bedside table; now was time to focus.

"That depends on what we're waiting for," said Crowley, "for Above to get bored or for Below to get lucky?"

"Angels are quite happy with performing the same task ad infinitum," Aziraphale primly observed. "I would not worry about them."

Crowley looked askance, as if to remind his companion of who had tried to end his existence. As far as Crowley was concerned, angels were definitely worth worrying about. However, if more demons like Goral attempted to escape Hell and renounced the devil, Below could not allow the situation to continue. And the best way to bring about another Armageddon was with another Antichrist.

"It took Hell 6,000 years to produce one Antichrist," Crowley said with a roll of his shoulders, digging into the bedding and nesting next to his companion. "Surely they've invented some efficiencies in all that time. If the devil was smart, he would already have a spare on Earth or at least in the works, and protected by caretakers who would make absolutely certain that this second child wanted to destroy the world. It took Adam Young eleven years to grow into his potential, but I doubt we've got that long."

"That… that's not a lot of time," Aziraphale said quietly. 

Crowley looked at him from the corner of his eye. "How much time would be enough for you?"

After everything Aziraphale had witnessed -- the entire human pageantry of joy and suffering, loss and triumph, and with a certain demon increasingly at his side -- he didn't want it to end ever. "That's the problem with being immortal," he mused. "The concept of running out of time -- truly running out -- is just unfathomable."

Crowley leaned into him, a comforting and familiar weight. The demon said nothing while he finished his drink, then leaned over the angel to rest his empty glass on the table beside Aziraphale's. 

Rather than rolling away, Crowley stayed draped over the angel's chest. "Pet me," he commanded, remembering how comforting that was the night before.

Aziraphale had the gall to laugh at him. "Are you a domesticated demon now?"

Crowley reared up and hissed in response, revealing rows of sharp fangs. It would have intimidated a stranger but Aziraphale curled his fingers into the short hairs at Crowley's nape until the demon rolled his eyes back behind his lids and dropped his head back on the angel's chest. 

"Maybe Gabriel is right," Aziraphale said with a slight smile as he worked his manicured fingers against the demon's scalp. "Maybe I am a little soft."

Crowley opened his eyes and fixed Aziraphale with a look. "Thank Somebody for that, Angel," he drawled. "The universe doesn't need any more arch-twats than it already has. Give me one good argument why he's better than Hastur. He isn't fit to fasten your sandals."

Aziraphale giggled at the warm defense and added his other hand to Crowley's head. The demon hummed appreciatively but he continued to dwell on the problem of Gabriel. 

For as long as Crowley had paid attention, Above had behaved badly to their Earthbound agent. The archangel had teased and bullied the principality, belittling Zira to his face in front of other angels. It was in no way comparable to the torture that Goral had endured for centuries in the Pits, but there were some similarities. And if an archangel treated one angel that way, what were the odds that there were others likewise intimidated or oppressed but lacking the means to avoid their tormentors because they were stuck in Heaven?

"You don't seem to find this relaxing, Dearest," Aziraphale said, breaking into Crowley's thoughts. 

"It's not you, Angel," he said. "Just, what are the odds that there are a few angels in Heaven who are tired of never measuring up to the archangels' expectations? What if a lowly angel hears about demons defecting from Hell and realizes that damnation isn't their only alternative to an eternity of listening to Sandalphon? What happens if an angel gets fed up with Gabriel's sanctimoniousness and defects as well?"

The idea was a horror. Heaven was only protecting them because it benefited them to do so. As long as Crowley's existence was more damaging to Hell than it was to Heaven, they would try to keep Crowley alive. But if Heaven thought that Crowley would cost them even one angel, they wouldn't hesitate to destroy him instantly. 

Aziraphale's own opinions and desires -- even his very existence at this point -- was secondary to Crowley's apparent worth to Above. But Aziraphale knew that either by his choice or Heaven's, he wouldn't outlive the demon. 

Suddenly, Aziraphale's heart was beating too fast. It was squeezed by an unknown force. His hands began to tremble and he clenched them before hearing Crowley hissed at him again and he released fistfuls of red hair although his hands still trembled. To have come this far, to have won some measure of freedom to do what he wanted with whom he wanted, and to know that it could be snatched away in an instant… it was unfair. 

"How do the humans cope with it?" he asked. 

"Alcohol," Crowley volunteered, "drugs, sex, denial, really bad choices, wallowing in regret. Some of them, if they can't avoid fate, they run headlong toward it."

"And do you… Do you regret anything?" Aziraphale asked as the thought occurred to him again. "You said the other night that you have regrets but when I asked you about them we ended up talking about perfect moments instead."

Crowley grimaced. He had hoped that Aziraphale would forget about that in all the other distractions. He was nowhere near drunk enough nor was his death imminent enough for him to confess what he truly regretted. "I suppose I regret not having more perfect moments." 

Aziraphale looked at him and seemed to understand what he was trying not to say. He gathered up the demon's hands in his own.

"Well then, let us make the most of the moments we still have while we're still here to have them."

* * *

Aziraphale stayed in the bed until Crowley drifted to sleep. 

When the demon was unresponsive, the angel slipped from his grasp and silently eased out of the room. No doubt Aziraphale could have spent the entire night with a book open in one hand while the other hand continued to stroke the demon's hair. He could have done so in pursuit of more perfect moments but it felt lacking when Crowley was unconscious, so instead he began to research where on Earth they should go.

Remote was his keyword. Remote and uninhabited. While the world's population continued to climb, certain areas remained empty, places like Antarctica, the interior of Australia, the northern reaches of Canada and Siberia, volcanic islands, and isolated mountain peaks like Tibet. 

Aziraphale frowned at the list of unappealing destinations. Then he frowned at his own softness. Gabriel had often chastised Aziraphale for being soft and Crowley had just defended that trait. The angel knew that there were multiple ways to be soft, and that the archangel and the demon could both be right. 

Just as he was about to open another tab on the Great Victoria Desert, Aziraphale wondered how crowded the Scottish highlands were. A few more clicks had him intrigued. He carefully constructed his next query ("highlands hideaway for sale") and hoped for a miracle. 

He was not disappointed.

There was an abandoned estate, complete with outbuildings and a ghost town, in the middle of nowhere. Bairderick had been awarded by King James to Lord Henry Dannel but the line had died out in WWII. The town also suffered heavy losses during the war and more losses after as soldiers refused to come home and other young people began to move away in droves. The last surviving resident passed away in the 1950s, and the entire area had been deserted since, slowly being reclaimed by nature. 

It was sure to be falling in on itself, Aziraphale noted, inhospitable and decaying. There were no recent pictures of it, only scanned black and white photographs taken before the last Dannel had died. It would take miracles and labor to make the estate livable, but Aziraphale had hope, and an angel's hope was a powerful force. 

They would have to start with one of the smaller structures, maybe with the dower cottage or the stables. Once that place was safely warded and structurally sound, they could expand to the other buildings. As more demons joined them, they'd have room for them. And with the number of outbuildings, he was sure that he could finagle some privacy and separation for himself and Crowley. 

He had composed and emailed a letter to the estate agency that he wanted to call on them that very afternoon to discuss the property. It would take some creative timing bordering on a miracle to close up the shop indefinitely and to get them all up to Scotland in time, but Aziraphale was sure they could manage. They had motivation enough.

It was then that Aziraphale wondered at how Goral had been able to track them, and how to lure more demons to their new base. The thought of murderous agents of Hell pursuing fleeing refugees through the crowded streets of Soho was sobering, moreso now that it was the middle of the night and he was alone. And it was certainly very taxing on the escaping demon as well, if Goral's injuries were any indication. It would be so much easier if Aziraphale could come up with a way to rescue them straight from the Pits and then transport them immediately to safety without increased risk to the demon or any risk at all to humans. And if he could arrange for the defection to happen when Heaven's companies were at the ready to rebuff hellish forces, so much the better! But it was not like he could just summ--

If he'd had anything in his hands, he would have dropped it; if he'd had anything in his mouth, he would have spat it out. 

He could summon demons. Goral must know a few by name to the point that Aziraphale could pull them into a summoning circle and see if they wanted to defect. And then he could just keep them on Earth if they did want to remain. It would certainly be easier for everyone involved, comically easier.

But it was so short a distance that it was barely a leap -- more of a shuffle really -- to imagine that Hell would try to summon Crowley and Goral back into their clutches.

In fact, they might already be trying it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scotland is not the South Downs, I know, but it'll do in a pinch.


	7. Tokens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gives Crowley some protection and they prepare to leave London and the bookshop for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter pulls in some characters from An Equitable Arrangement, but I don't think the backstory is necessary.

Aziraphale slipped back into Crowley's bedroom after 6 a.m. He had news and did not mind jostling the demon into wakefulness.

"Crowley," he whispered unsubtly. "Crowley, are you up?"

The demon shifted under his blankets and made a sleepy noise of protest. 

"I have something for you," Aziraphale announced. He pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. 

The demon latched onto him and snuggled against his side; all plans of getting up were cast aside. 

"Here, put this on," Aziraphale said, slipping something onto the demon's wrist. 

Crowley didn't bother to look at it. "Wassit?" he murmured. 

"It's a bit of protection," answered Aziraphale. "I made one for Goral as well."

Crowley roused himself to examine the trinket -- a plastic yellow band with a motivational message printed on it. 

"What would Jesus do? Are you serious?" he groused. 

"Forgive me if it's a little juvenile," Aziraphale apologized, "but the bracelets were languishing in the shop's lost and found, and I didn't think I could make something else in time."

"You expect me to wear this? I am still a demon at heart," Crowley said.

"Check the underside," said Aziraphale. "I promise it's only temporary, but it occurred to me that you need protection now in whatever package I can provide it."

Crowley was sitting up now, blinking at the child's trinket in irritation. "What kind of protection do you think this will provide?"

Aziraphale huffed and carefully folded over the bracelet, exposing various signs and sigils carved into the plastic. "It's a ward. I added a few drops of my blood to strengthen it. If I did it right, no one will be able to summon you away."

 _"Summon_ me?" Any hope the demon had of falling back to sleep died violently.

"You're safe behind wards now," Aziraphale reminded him, "in both Soho and Mayfair, and I know you have made adjustments to the Bentley, but if you are walking on the street, even just between your flat and the car, if Hell times it just right, they could snatch you away before Merciael could stop them. And who knows where you'd end up or what would happen to you? If you think about it, it's a near thing that nothing's happened so far. I mean, you walked me to the front door last night. They could have --" He cut himself off before he let his words paint too gruesome of a picture. Besides, it was clear from the expression on Crowley's face that the demon was now cognizant of his vulnerability.

"And you will need something, you know," Aziraphale continued. "We aren't staying in London. We can't; it's irresponsible. I've done a little research and we may need to be in Scotland in 12 hours. It's not a lot of time, but this is one less thing for us to worry about." He touched the band once more before slotting his fingers between Crowley's. 

Crowley, for his own part, just sat there stupidly for a moment. "Scotland?" he said at last.

* * *

The Bentley flew through the streets of London at a respectable hour of the morning. Crowley had insisted that the three others remain in the back seat, reserving Aziraphale's spot up front. 

He parked half a block from the bookshop and coolly asked the others if they were ready. He had spent more than an hour that morning getting them dressed in proper human clothes and going over a plausible story to explain Goral as well as the two angels. Now was the time to put the wheels in motion.

Crowley got out and then opened the back door for Goral. The angels had disappeared by then but he could feel them crowding him on the sidewalk. 

"Right," he muttered. "Let's do this."

He led Goral into a coffee shop. Soho, like the rest of London and most cities throughout the first world, was lousy with coffee shops, but this particular establishment was run by friends of Aziraphale who might notice the extra body or three hanging around the bookshop today, and would certainly notice when the shop was shut up indefinitely.

"Good morning, Mr. Crowley," greeted the woman behind the counter. "You're out early this morning."

Crowley made a face but continued to approach the counter. "Yeah, I've got family in England unexpectedly," he said with a nod to Goral. "Throws a wrench in my routine."

"How do you do?" said the woman, holding out her hand. "Welcome to London. I'm Bernice."

Goral looked unsure for a moment before accepting the woman's outstretched hand. "My name is Goral," he said, copying as well as he could the friendly accents he had heard on television programs.

"Pleased to meet you," she smiled and pulled her hand away as the bell above the door jingled to announce more customers. Two joyless, professional, women-shaped beings walked to the counter and stood behind the two demons. 

Crowley ordered drinks and Bernice asked a few good-natured questions about the minibreak. It was a good time to drop the fact that the bookshop would be closing:

"Zira and I won't be staying in town long, I'm afraid. We plan on taking Goral out and about through England, show him the sites while he's here, just the three of us. Hope the rest of the family doesn't crash it."

Before Bernice could say that the scheme sounded nice, Goral chipped in: "I hope Mameg shows up."

"Mameg?" Crowley repeated sharply. There had been a clear threat of the destruction that would be caused when another demon found them, but this was formless without knowing that one was even trying to find them.

"She's my…" Goral trailed off in embarrassment, then leaned in and whispered something in an old and harsh language in Crowley's ear.

"Your girlfriend?" the redheaded demon translated with venom. "You're expecting your girlfriend to show up and you only now mention this?"

The woman behind the counter started to coo about relationships but Crowley ignored her. His thoughts were of Aziraphale and getting out of London as fast as possible. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of cash that hadn't been there earlier. He dropped some bills on the counter and dragged Goral and their order out of the shop.

* * *

Aziraphale had started preparing to close the shop even before Crowley had taken the secret passage back to his flat in Mayfair. A number of books and collectables should be left behind, remaining on display in the front room of the shop. But there was so much knowledge that he wanted at his fingertips, that he simply had to take with him. It wasn't because he hadn't read the books, or couldn't remember key passages, but it might help if another being cared to read through as well. And some books were tremendously entertaining; it would be nice to have something to read during the boring bits, provided they were allowed boring bits. 

A lot of his preparations involved moving books into a pocket dimension he had miracled. He would simply move the books out when they had created a safe place to store them on Earth. Unfortunately, he didn't think he had time to organize them so they'd be a mess coming out, but that was better than leaving them behind.

The bell above the door jingled.

"Crowley," he greeted, returning to the front room.

It was not Crowley but Mary Garth, the woman who owned the nearby flower shop.

"Oh, Miss Garth," he tried again. "I was expecting Crowley."

"No worries," said the woman, "I just wanted to finish up with you about the holiday decorations for the block. We talked about them on Thursday, and I know you are always prompt in paying your share, but we must have gotten distracted because I didn't notice until after you had left for your minibreak that I didn't get your money."

"Oh," he said, feeling a little guilty about the angelic influence he had used to get her out of the shop at the time. "Let me just write a check." 

He went to the back room and pulled out the checkbook. Miss Garth trailed behind him, then gasped as she saw the empty bookshelves.

"Mr. Fell, is anything going on?" she asked. "Are you remodeling or relocating?"

Aziraphale looked about the room guiltily. He was too far in to hide it, and honestly it was probably best to tell her that he was planning on closing the shop for a bit.

"Well, as a matter of fact," he began, only for the bell above the door to cut him off.

"Angel!" shouted Crowley from the front room. "Angel, get out here."

"Excuse me," Aziraphale said, suddenly anxious to interrupt the demon before he blurted out anything suspiciously non-human.

"Guess who has a girlfriend," Crowley spat when Aziraphale appeared, Miss Garth right behind him.

"If you're referring to Patrick from the coffee shop," said Aziraphale primly, "I'd like to remind you that we've been on a double date with him and Marika before." The young people hadn't officially been an item at the time, but the angel assumed it was all the spark they needed.

"Goral! Goral has a girlfriend," Crowley said, glaring at the other demon. "And she's coming to see him," he added with dark emphasis. He had seen the neighboring business owner and knew to keep himself in check, but he was bound to say something.

"Oh," Aziraphale said. His voice sounded calm but he could feel panic rising in his chest. 

The shop bell jingled once more as two businesswomen walked in with disposable cups of tea in hand.

"Looks like you have your hands full," observed Mary Garth. "If I could just --"

Aziraphale handed her a check that he had miracled into existence. He needed to get her out of here. They all needed to get out of here as soon as possible. 

"Thank you very much, again, for organizing all of this for the block," he said as he escorted her to the door. "My only worry is that we won't be back in time to see them so you must please take pictures for me. I always appreciate your fine work."

Mary Garth may have replied, but the door was now shut and she was on the outside, already forgotten.

"A girlfriend?" Aziraphale said, not wasting time. "Does he know her name?"

Crowley settled his shoulders in a scoff.

"I mean does he know what name to use to _summon her_?" Aziraphale clarified as if it was obvious.

"You know how to summon demons?" Merciael inquired. "You can do that, Principality?"

Aziraphale looked momentarily caught. "Yes, but… Well, it's complicated," he said. "And no one is summoning anyone in London. Which is why we are leaving for Scotland as soon as I finish packing up in here. In fact, if anyone would like to help, the work will go much faster." He looked at them each in turn until they acquiesced. 

After he had doled out assignments, the laptop chimed with a message. It was from the agency representing the abandoned estate. Rather than rely on emails, Aziraphale rang them up. Crowley listened in on the conversation while the others sent books into the ether:

"Yes, hello, this is Ezra Fell. I had contacted you about the Bairderick property… Mr. Clark, I viewed the materials online, and my partner and I are most eager to see it for ourselves… Yes, we're aware it's seen better days. We're in the market for a fixer upper with lots of space and privacy." He eyed Crowley while the estate agent read out the same information he had already seen online. "Oh, Mr. Clark, that's wonderful. And will you be able to show it today?... Are you sure? Could you not make an exception?... Seven hours? Yes, of course, I understand. The logistics… Tomorrow sounds lovely. A picnic would be marvelous… When shall we meet at your office?... Perfect. Until tomorrow."

Crowley raised his brows. "Tomorrow? You couldn't miracle today?"

Aziraphale frowned. "The logistics are a bit rough for humans. The agency's office is hours away from the estate, and the sun sets rather early up there right now. Gregory offered to take us on a picnic lunch there tomorrow, we just need to show up at his office by 8 a.m. and he'll even drive us there and back."

"We have to be there at dawn for a lunch appointment?"

"The agency is hours away from the estate. We want to be somewhere remote," Aziraphale reminded him. "It won't do to have helpful neighbors attempting to intervene when Heaven and Hell are battling each other. But I suppose that gives us a little more time today before we need to be on the road. Maybe one final lunch while we're still in town?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WWJD?
> 
> Have one last lunch in town.


	8. Bairderick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pair consider buying a home in Scotland. Aziraphale upgrades Crowley's wristband.

An estate agent named Gregory Clark met Aziraphale and Crowley at his office in Inverness. After brief introductions and a check that the planned lunch didn't conflict with anyone's diet, they got into his car and he drove them to the north and east along increasingly rural roads. 

Mr. Clark gave them an annotated history of the property as they drove. It was apparent that he had spent the entire previous day memorizing details about the estate and forming opinions about it. In between, he shared personal anecdotes about various unique properties he has represented over the years and politely inquired into why they were interested in a derelict Scottish manor.

The truth was a little too hard to explain and impossible to believe, so Aziraphale let Crowley say that they were recently retired and indecently rich.

"Plus, I ran into an old work colleague of mine this summer in Oxfordshire. She converted an abandoned convent into a management training facility and is doing rather well for herself. Converting an old Scottish castle into an executive education center sounds like an interesting second career. All those companies paying for the necessary room and board leaves the executives free to splurge on extra expenses once they arrive."

Crowley had been speaking bold lies, deceptive half-truths, and colorful interpretations since the apple; he knew how to say what people needed to hear. Aziraphale should not have been impressed -- neither as an angel nor as one who had seen Crowley's wiles for centuries -- but he had a soft spot for the demon. 

Mr. Clark was intrigued by the idea. "I dare say Bairderick will be good for that," he told them but warned that the property didn't have electricity. He recommended some solar panels for the summer and cautioned them against keeping the manor open during the winter.

"As beautiful as Bairderick is, it's hours away from civilization. Winters are dark and isolating in the Highlands. The Dannels didn't spend their winters there unless they were too sick to travel," he said. "Typically, they spent that time in Edinburgh. I wouldn't recommend you try it until you've built it up for a few years."

He knew of a large variety of contractors to do all the work that the Londoners were willing to pay for. Aziraphale politely took the names but knew they would have miracles enough for what was needed.

At last they arrived. Mr. Clark drove up the front drive and parked before the grand entrance. The manor truly looked like a Scottish castle -- beautiful and solid and solitary -- from a distance but signs of neglect grew more apparent as they drew closer. 

Aziraphale was quick to praise and admire it, and Crowley was equally quick to chide the angel for being overeager. The pile was not a derelict ruin, but if they truly had limited funds and time it would be too ambitious of a project. Much of the building was in severe disrepair and would take a fortune to turn into the sort of facility Crowley had described.

After showing them around the ground floor of the manor, Mr. Clark directed them to the dowager cottage less than a half mile away while he set up the picnic from the hamper packed in the trunk of his car. 

They strode shoulder to shoulder, reviewing their impressions. Aziraphale, thankfully, was not deceived or naïvely optimistic about the current condition of the manor, "but with the right application of miracles, it can become a wonderful home for expatriated demons. And, truth be told, I don't plan on living there. It's the cottage I am most interested in."

Crowley pocketed the house keys the estate agent had given him and unlocked the front door the demonic way. "Well, Angel," he said, "let's see if this shack can charm you out of London." And they crossed the threshold.

Finally without a human observer, Merciael appeared. Crowley groaned when he saw her. It had been a morning of 'out of sight, out of mind,' and he did not like to be reminded of his bodyguard. 

"This place should be suitably secluded from human society," she observed. 

"I agree," Aziraphale said. "Mr. Clark said that we were at least two hours away from another soul in any direction."

"Yes, I imagine one could scream their lungs out, make a truly _infernal racket_ , and no one would notice," said Crowley with a pointed look at Aziraphale. 

The angel seemed a bit flustered by that. "Well," he said, clearing his throat, "the other three would notice, I'm sure."

"Three, Principality?" asked Merciael. "Don't you mean the other _four_?"

Aziraphale turned red and sputtered in agreement, terribly embarrassed by his inability to count while Crowley chuckled and wisely strolled into another room. 

If the demon was hoping to be alone then Merciael thwarted him, trailing after him like a shadow. Aziraphale, on the other hand, did go off in a different direction, roaming through the upstairs rooms. 

It was in many ways more of a cottage than the rental they had stayed in over the weekend, with small, dark rooms and creaking stairs, a surfeit of fireplaces and a lack of central heating. This dwelling was the most recent construction at Bairderick and therefore glaringly modern compared to the manor, but it was still about 80 years old. Even then, it was younger than Aziraphale's corner in Soho.

Aziraphale liked the tiny rooms, could imagine which books would be best suited for each of them as well as chairs and sofas, lamps and rugs to make the place cozy. Perhaps a darker color scheme than the shop yet not as dark as Crowley's flat: a merger of their styles. And a collection of angels and demons only a stone's throw away for all the daily society they needed. 

He opened the door into the final room. Numerous individual panes of glass -- more than a few of them cracked and all of them covered with a film of dirt -- gave the room illumination and a draft. The windows were south-facing to catch the most light and no doubt the room would be intolerably bright at the height of summer, but it would be a splendid solarium for houseplants if one was so inclined, and a little miracle to keep it from getting too chilly in the winter would hardly be any effort. Crowley's plants would thrive here, Aziraphale thought with a smile. 

"Angel!" came Crowley's voice from the main floor. There was no worry or danger in the sound. Rather, there was a bit of excitement in it. "Kitchen!"

Aziraphale clambered down the back staircase to find Crowley and Merciael in the barren and outdated kitchen. Crowley wasted no time in leading them into one room then the next. This room was much like the sunny room upstairs. Indeed, this room was directly below it and Aziraphale could easily imagine the architectural detail of the column of windows stretching for two stories from the outside. 

"Oh, my Dear, this is lovely," said Aziraphale. "Can you just imagine this room in summer with your plants?"

Crowley grunted in agreement; he had been thinking the same thing. "It's a little small, though," he admitted. 

"We'll just have to put the rest in the matching room upstairs, then," Aziraphale decided. 

Crowley raised a brow expressively then disappeared to see for himself. Merciael, as always, trailed behind him. 

Alone again, Aziraphale continued his tour of the main floor. He had just returned to the front hall when Mr. Clark walked in and announced the picnic was waiting.

"Crowley Dearest," Aziraphale called up the steps, "Mr. Clark is here." He didn't want Merciael to make an appearance. 

"And what did you think of it?" asked the agent.

"Oh, it's adorable, simply wonderful," Aziraphale gushed. "It does show its age a bit, but don't we all?" He didn't mind looking like a patsy to the estate agent with Crowley to balance him out. 

The agent put the same question to Crowley and got a grumbled reply before leading them out to a blanket spread out in a pleasantly shaded spot. 

Not knowing what to expect except that the potential clients were retiring from London, Mr. Clark had packed a variety of foods to satisfy several fashionably restrictive diets. He was pleasantly surprised that Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley were perfectly reasonable in sampling the various dishes. They talked more of the property, the condition of the buildings, the expense of time and money in bringing it up to scratch again. Of the two clients, Mr. Crowley was clearly the planner although Mr. Clark would later have difficulty remembering the details of the flash Londoner's schemes for the property. 

After lunch, they walked through more of the buildings -- the carriage house which had partially been converted into a garage; a dilapidated groundskeeper's shed; the ruins of a greenhouse. 

"What else would you gentlemen like to see?" he asked at last. "I remind you that I need to get back to Inverness in due time."

The two shared a speaking look. "If we could just have a few moments to ourselves," Aziraphale requested.

The agent ambled off, keeping them in sight. If they should call out for him, he'd surely hear them, but they had privacy so long as they kept their voices low.

"I suppose it'll do," said Crowley. It was his nature to damn with faint praise. 

"Really, Dearest?" Aziraphale looked staid.

"Oh, sure, it looks picturesque now, but wait until it's covered in demons," he groused. 

"Yes, which is why we'll need to get the manor house secure as soon as possible," agreed Aziraphale, "so we can have the cottage to ourselves."

"I doubt my shadow will be pleased with that," he said, knowing Merciael was nearby and listening.

"I'm sure I can convince her that you will be perfectly safe behind the wards we'll put up." Aziraphale spoke with angelic confidence. Surely he was right, and surely right would prevail. "But, speaking of wards…"

Crowley peered at him over the top of his glasses. Something in the angel's voice was suddenly off, an anxiety or tension that hasn't been there a moment ago.

"What's wrong?" Crowley breathed, not quite ready to start panicking.

"Nothing!" Aziraphale was quick to assure him. "No worries. It's just… Do you remember when I ran a little errand over lunch yesterday?"

Crowley nodded. "You slipped out of the restaurant for a quarter-hour and wouldn't say where you'd gone." Crowley had not forgotten.

"Yes, well." Aziraphale swallowed. "It's just that you were not very fond of the wrist band I made for you to protect you against summoning. And I didn't think we'd have the opportunity to shop for something more to your taste once we left town; we'll be terribly busy getting this place ready, if we decide on this place. I was concerned that you might take it off at night and forget to put it on in the morning, and that would be the one morning someone tried to take you. And if you actually liked your protective ward, you might keep it on all the time which I think we can all agree is for the best --"

"Angel," Crowley said to stop the rambling, "did you get me a different bracelet?"

"No," Aziraphale winced, "but almost. I stayed up last night putting the wards on it. And we can give your bracelet to Mameg when we rescue her." He fumbled through his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a plain gold band. "It's a ring," he stated the obvious, holding it up with a shaking hand like it was something both sacred and dangerous.

Crowley took it from him with reverence.

"I hope you like it," Aziraphale said quietly, his eyes focused on the small circle of gold. "I hope it fits."

Crowley slid it on. It was a little tight but that was good; he didn't want it slipping off for any reason. It was without any ornamentation, carving, or gems on the outside although if Crowley concentrated he could feel the the sigils that Aziraphale had embedded into the side that pressed against his skin. The simplicity of the ring meant that it was as timeless as an immortal being.

"You picked this out?" he grunted.

"Do you like it?" Aziraphale hedged. 

Crowley grabbed him and kissed him in answer. "When I get you alone, I am going to kiss you hard enough to pop your wings out," he growled lowly, following those words with a few more searing kisses. "And then I'm going to take those wings, and --"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale warned him sharply. "We have an audience." Mr. Clark was still at a respectful distance, trying not to gape, and an angel-shaped patch of air behind Crowley was beginning to shimmer and warp like a mirage.

Crowley stopped but not without expressing his reluctance. "Right, then," he said at last, "let's get this over with and get back to the hotel."

The demon raised his hand and waved to the agent. It was time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He likes it.
> 
> Infernal racket, lol
> 
> How are you enjoying it so far?


	9. A Row in Inverness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zira and Crowley disagree over how to move into their new home.

After congratulating the two on what was obviously a successful proposal of marriage, Mr. Clark spent much of the drive back discussing the offer on the property. As buyers, Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell were adamant that they be accepted and take possession of it right away. 

"Yes, yes," Mr. Clark agreed. "You'll want to get someone there in the spring to start repairs."

"The spring is far too late," said Mr. Fell. "I'm sure you can understand. We want someone there tomorrow."

"To--" The agent choked on the rest of the word. "But it's November! You gentlemen must realize that you won't be able to get a good craftsman to Bairderick before spring. Even if one had the time, we're heading full-speed into winter. No one could find enough daylight hours to come all this way to work on anything."

"We like to plan ahead," said Crowley from the back seat where he sat twisting his ring and watching it catch the fading light. "Before we send people to work on the property, we want to make sure they're fixing what ought to be fixed. No point wasting time and money repairing something that we want to get rid of. That means architects and such to come up with blueprints and designs. That means us having the keys and being able to give them to others. That means us not being concerned that the owners are going to back out of it in February when they get wind of our ideas and want to make a go of it themselves."

Mr. Clark made a faintly disapproving noise but he saw the arguments he needed to see; Crowley had far too much experience in tempting humans into following their natural inclinations for it to be otherwise. "When we get in cellphone range, I'll call my office and we can start the paperwork," he acquiesced. "In the meantime, you want to review the maintenance reports I've brought with me and talk it through so we can come up with a reasonable offer."

* * *

By the time Mr. Clark dropped them off at their car, the offer was already sent electronically to the owners and Crowley was eager to celebrate by taking his angel to dinner. Unfortunately, dinner was not the private affair he had hoped for. He had yet to get rid of Merciael, and Goral and Chripheala added to their number. 

Despite the excess company, Crowley was determined to enjoy the meal. If he angled his body just so, it was almost as if the other three were merely a separate party sharing the same table. Aziraphale, on the other hand, worked hard to involve the others in conversation that mostly focused on the property. 

They were deep into their third bottle of wine -- Goral had taken to alcohol with the same speed as he had to hot chocolate while the two guardian angels abstained from drinking -- when Crowley's phone rang. It was Mr. Clark with good news.

"They have accepted your offer!" he announced.

"That was miraculously quick," Crowley drawled. His eyes darted to Aziraphale who looked both prim and guilty.

"Yes," the agent laughed. "It nearly broke the speed record for our office. I suppose the owners didn't want to give you the opportunity to change your mind. They have no amendments to the offer. The descendents have already removed everything of sentimental or monetary value from the property -- everything that could be moved, that is -- years ago and they have issued no challenge to the request for immediate occupancy, or should I say 'possession'? They're signing the papers tomorrow at noon and will send them, along with the keys and a few other odds and ends, via courier to my office. You can stop by my office at -- shall we say 3? -- and sign your side of things."

"Three o'clock sounds perfect." It would mean they could drive out immediately after if they so chose, arriving at the property well after dark. Crowley would prefer another night in the comfort of their hotel room but ever since Goral had mentioned a girlfriend he had felt the pressure of the unknown deadline. 

A few more words ended the call. Before he could repeat the news to the waiting table, Aziraphale leaned over and kissed him with a chaste enthusiasm.

"This calls for a celebration," Aziraphale declared, waving over the server to order champagne.

As the woman hurried off to bring the bottle and glasses, Crowley leaned forward and whispered quietly, "Wings, Angel. Tonight."

While Aziraphale blushed in reply, Chripheala asked baldly, "Why do you say things like that? Why do you do things like that?"

"We're, um, we're pretending to be a human couple," Aziraphale repeated their tacitly agreed upon ruse. "These are things that human couples say and do."

"Humans don't have wings," Merciael pointed out. 

"We're not perfect at it," Crowley ground out. His rictus smile had a few too many teeth when the server set the bottle on the table. 

Conversation halted while the human went through the ritual of removing the cork and pouring the first glass.

"And what are we toasting tonight?" the woman asked good-naturedly.

"We just bought a home in the highlands!" Aziraphale beamed at her. 

Unable to resist such an outpouring of angelic happiness, the server smiled back before going to another table. 

They toasted themselves, and the world for old times sake. The previous topic was temporarily, blessedly forgotten. 

"Are we moving there tomorrow night?" asked Goral. He had spent the day couped up in his hotel room with only Chripheala and the television for company. 

"We can drive to Bairderick," agreed Merciael, "but you demons will need to stay in the car until the Principality gets the wards up."

"Why is that Aziraphale's sole responsibility?" Crowley grumbled. It would only take a fraction of the time with two more angels at work.

"Because knowing how to ward properly is not a skill one needs in Heaven," Chripheala said. That lack of practice meant it would be faster and safer if Aziraphale simply did all the work by himself.

"If the Principality wanted to go ahead of us," suggested Merciael, "and get started tonight, I'm sure it would be safe for you demons by the time we arrive."

Before anyone else could offer an opinion, Crowley gave an emphatic and decisive, "No."

"Why not?" squawked Aziraphale.

"Because, we both need to be at the estate agency signing paperwork tomorrow," said Crowley. He leaned closer to add sotto voce, "And I have plans for you tonight."

The exact classification of Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship was never formally discussed or recorded, and after six millennia of keeping mum on the topic with each other, they weren't about to breathe a word to anybody else. When pressed, they simply said that they were pretending to be a human couple as that was the ruse that had set them accelerating down their current path. That didn't mean they didn't know how the other felt, it just meant that they didn't bother with the words. But the looks and the touches, however, were becoming harder to hide.

Aziraphale's face took on a soft look, like he was melting on the spot. It was, if one had to come up with an adjective, very loving. Then Crowley watched his expression change while he considered Merciael's idea.

"No, Angel. No."

"It's only one night, Dearest," Aziraphale began, talking quickly. "We don't need both of us in Inverness tomorrow afternoon to sign so long as you're there. Just call Mr. Clark back and let him know that the property will be in your name. Tell him I'm busy meeting with an architect or something. And if I leave tonight right after dinner, I can have the carriage house and most of the cottage protected by the time you arrive. I'll admit it's not perfect --"

"It is very, very far from perfect," Crowley spat. "You forget that the muscle isn't here to protect you. If you go there without me, you go there alone and defenseless."

"I'm not totally defenseless," said Aziraphale. He distinctly remembered Crowley recently telling him that he was not weak and feeble. 

"Where is your sword, Angel?" the demon countered.

Aziraphale blinked at the unexpected display of venom, unable to speak. The donation of his flaming sword had only ever been a source of gentle teasing before now.

"Look, we're not trying to convince your neighbors that you're not some old man in need of a nursemaid. We are going up against the forces of Hell and they will exploit whatever weaknesses we have." Crowley was stabbing his finger into the table to make his point.

"Without you there, what possible attraction could I hold for them?"

The words were not meant to be self-deprecating but rather a statement of fact. Hell wanted to destroy Crowley; therefore, Hell had no good reason to rampage at Bairderick while Crowley was elsewhere. It ignored another fact hidden in plain sight: that Aziraphale was Crowley's weakness, and Hell had only to apply pressure there to bring the wayward demon to his knees. 

"Surely you know better than that," Crowley said, trusting Aziraphale to understand what was unsaid. Gabriel and the other arch-wankers might have suffered from the delusion that Aziraphale was worthless as an angel, but Crowley knew better. He hoped that Aziraphale knew better and feared that Hell did.

"One night," Aziraphale pleaded, blind to his own significance even now.

Crowley knew that a few well timed words would totally rewrite things between them, but he wasn't about to be goaded into it in front of the others at the table. In frustration, he fell back in his chair only briefly before rocketing up to standing. He slapped his hand on the table, sending the glassware jumping and drawing eyes and ears from around the dining room.

"Dearest," warned Aziraphale after the second of tense silence, "you are causing a scene."

Crowley blinked and a sudden, loud crash erupted from across the room as two servers laiden with trays of dishes knocked into each other. With that spectacle garnering every possible attention, Crowley stalked out and Merciael followed him.

"Well, that went over like a lead balloon," Aziraphale muttered to himself. 

"Do we go after him?" Goral asked.

Aziraphale shrugged miserably. "I need to stay behind and pay the bill but you are welcome to go so long as you give him space to be angry." The last thing he wanted right now was for Crowley to be goaded into more reckless behavior. Inverness was not as large as London, but the costs of a skirmish would still be high. He raised a hand to signal their server.

"Principality," Chripheala said in a respectful tone, "what happened to your sword?"

He smiled tightly. God had asked him about it once and he had equivocated (one cannot lie to Omnipotence). The subject had never come up again, but he was a fool of an immortal being to think that was the last of it. 

"I, I gave it away," he admitted. "At the time, humanity needed it more than me. I don't regret my decision," he added as a personal reminder.

"And without a weapon, you are defenseless," Chripheala reasoned. 

"I'm not utterly useless," Aziraphale said, feeling low. 

"I can give you a blade, if you like," Goral offered, which was better than nothing.

* * *

Aziraphale touched down in front of Bairderick's carriage house. His wings flexed one more time, feathers trying to settle, and then winked out of the mortal plane.

It was nearly midnight and the moon was a thin crescent, barely illuminating anything. He put his hand on the door knob and willed it open. 

"Let there be light," he prayed, and the interior of the carriage house lit up.

"Took you long enough," came an unfriendly voice.

Aziraphale was fumbling for Goral's dagger instantly -- an instant too late -- but it was not a servant of Hell trying to harm him.

"Sandalphon?" he asked breathlessly.

"Chripheala called in to report that you lost your flaming sword," he sneered. "Really, Aziraphale, you are a rubbish angel. Why we ever thought you were competent is beyond me."

"Have you come to ridicule me?"

"No, that's just an added bonus," Sandalphon smiled his toothy, golden smile. "I have a gift from the quartermaster, and a warning from the rest of us to keep this new toy in your possession."

He produced a long, thin case and presented it to Aziraphale. Upon opening it, Aziraphale discovered a new sword. As soon as he grasped the hilt, the blade burst into holy flame. 

"Take care that you don't lose it," said Sandalphon. "You'll find that if anyone other than you touches the sword, it will cause them excruciating pain up to and including discorporation or death. The incentive was my idea."

"No one else can touch it?" Aziraphale repeated, aghast. "But what if I'm disarmed and someone tries to give it back to me? What if I'm in a situation where I need someone else to hold the sword? How can this be safe?"

"It's a sword. It's not supposed to be safe." Sandalphon's logic was unassailable. "You're welcome."

"I don't want a sword like this," he protested. "You must take it back."

"I'm not taking it back," Sandalphon refused, eying the blade distastefully. "What part of _no one else may touch it_ do you not understand?"

Aziraphale could only shudder and hide the sword away. How could he ever draw such a weapon? "Would you like to, would you like to stay and help?" He had no idea if Sandalphon had any experience with wards, but he supposed he shouldn't turn his back to any help.

"No, not at all," Sandalphon told him flatly. "And, even better, I don't have to."

With that, the entire room went white. When color and shade returned, Sandalphon was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In general, I'm a "if you can't/won't discuss it with your partner, you probably shouldn't discuss it with outsiders" sort of person. And, yes, bastard though he is, when resources are low Aziraphale strikes me as one to remove his own wants and needs from consideration when trying to balance everything.
> 
> Small shout out to Goral for the helpful miracle: chalk, candles, knives of all kinds. He's got your back. 
> 
> Oh, and introducing Chekhov's flaming sword.


	10. Fatigue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving is exhausting.

The Bentley jerked to a stop in front of the estate agency office and Crowley was out before anyone could stop him. He had been in a foul mood since the end of dinner last night and had made no plans to change any time soon. As bored as Goral was of the inside of his hotel room, he chose to stay there with Chripheala rather than accompany the other demon. Merciael, however, was stuck attending the cantankerous demon although she gave a very good impression of an angel who neither noticed nor cared how Crowley felt which only exacerbated the situation.

Crowley sighed heavily and rolled his shoulders before entering the office. He needed to behave appropriately in front of Mr. Clark even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. They needed that property. For the angel to have spent a night away from him preparing Bairderick and to have Crowley ruin it was not worth contemplating. With one last grunt of anger, he threw himself forward, trusting Merciael to tail him invisibly.

Gregory Clark subconsciously noticed that something was off when he greeted the buyer; Crowley had plenty of experience in acting human but he could still exude malcontent like a demonic pheromone. The agent tried to make small talk, commenting that he was impressed by how quickly they were meeting with an architect, the excuse they had used to explain Aziraphale's absence. It was a bad idea to bring up anything related to Aziraphale, however, and Crowley's silent glower ended the human's attempt at pleasant chatter. 

"Let me get the paperwork," Mr. Clark said. He rose and the door to his office burst open. 

Aziraphale stood in the doorway, panting and disheveled. He looked like he had just finished a footrace for which he hadn't prepared. For all that the angel had gone native, he would never allow his corporation to do something so vulgar as sweat. Aziraphale had spent decades accumulating and caring for his current wardrobe and wasn't about to soil it needlessly. But he did breathe as a matter of habit, and he was still trying to catch his breath.

"Am I too late?" he wheezed. "Did I miss it?"

"Good heavens, Mr. Fell!" Mr. Clark exclaimed. "We didn't expect you. You didn't need to rush; we have everything in hand. Shall I get you something to drink? A tea?"

Aziraphale thanked him and elegantly collapsed into a seat. Mr. Clark left to fetch his drink.

"What are you doing here, Angel?" Crowley asked in a quieter voice. 

"I know how important this is to you, Dearest," Aziraphale replied, his voice equally soft and not meant for eavesdroppers. "I got here as soon as I could."

"You're a mess," Crowley told him, leaning in for a closer inspection. "Your hair is all tangled and tussled. Your clothes are rumpled. You look... you look exhausted." 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and barely lifted his shoulders. He had truly stretched himself in trying to prepare Bairderick for them to move into and then in rushing back to Inverness. Right now he didn't think he had the miracle in him to turn off the lights. 

"You have a lot of nerve, Angel," Crowley growled at him. "We are going to go discuss this later in excruciating detail."

Aziraphale nodded contritely, his eyes still shut. His eyelids proved remarkably difficult to lift right now. It had been a calculated risk and he wondered how much he had miscalculated.

Mr. Clark came back into the room and handed him a mug. Aziraphale accepted it gratefully and they got to business.

The contract had already been signed by the sellers. The signature lines for the buyer were marked with sticky tags and the agent guided Crowley through the signing process. There was a bank draft that Crowley produced from somewhere, and another employee of the agency acted as witness when needed. A half hour later, the agent pulled out a thick ring of keys and a bottle of Scotch. 

"Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Clark with a smile, "you now own a Scottish castle. Congratulations!"

* * *

Crowley drove them through the dark roads, pulled toward their new home as if by magic. Aziraphale sat slumped in the front passenger seat, the bottle of Scotch resting in his lap, his eyes fluttering shut only to snap open when the road forced the car to turn sharply. Goral was in the back, sandwiched between two angels and excitedly watching everything pass by. He had started asking questions as soon as they had picked him up from the hotel and he had not yet stopped. Most of the answers he received were merely delay tactics -- "you'll have to see for yourself when we get there," "no one knows at this time," "we haven't decided yet," -- but his curiosity was apparently infinite.

Merciael and Chripheala sat quietly for the most part, their senses constantly striving to detect the first sign of a threat. 

All at once, it felt as if the Bentley had passed through an invisible barrier. A warning thrummed deep in their corporations that had everyone instantly on alert. Crowley slammed on the brakes.

"What was that?" Chripheala asked, staring intently into the space around them.

"That was me," Aziraphale admitted. "I, um… I installed a perimeter alarm. We just crossed the border into Bairderick. Don't worry; it's not to keep anyone out, it just provides a warning. It should be undetectable by humans although it will discourage them from coming further."

Relieved that it was a harmless miracle, Crowley urged the car onward.

"But demons come from underground, Principality," Merciael pointed out. "A smart demon would just burrow up in front of the castle, wouldn't it?"

"They would if they could, I suppose," he agreed in principle. "But I've sealed it off."

"Hang on," Crowley grimaced. "Tell me you didn't consecrate the ground, Angel."

"Of course not!" he scoffed. "Not exactly."

"What do you mean by _not exactly_?" Crowley wanted to know. "Did you consecrate it or didn't you?"

"I made the barrier about six meters underground," Aziraphale explained, "and then I consecrated the earth immediately below it to act as an additional deterrent. It shouldn't bother any demon who is staying here as our guest unless they take up digging as a hobby."

"So does that mean that it's safe for me to get out of the car?" Goral asked hopefully.

"Yes, dear boy." "No, absolutely not!" Aziraphale and Chripheala had diametrically different opinions. Crowley merely grit his teeth and increased his speed. 

Soon the castle came into view. As they drew nearer, other buildings became distinguishable. 

"Over there, Dearest," Aziraphale said, directing them to the carriage house. 

Crowley opened the front doors with a sneer and steered the car inside. As soon as the Bentley came to a stop, Goral clamored over Chripheala and spilled through the window out onto the floor. He popped up like magic and giddily began inspecting everything while his guardian angel chased after him. A minor miracle from Merciael illuminated the space so the rest could watch the scene.

"What wards did you put in here?" Crowley asked as the engine fell silent.

"I kept it flexible," Aziraphale said around a jaw-cracking yawn. "Anyone can cross the boundaries -- angel or demon -- but there's a limit on the types of miracles allowed. Nothing harmful or dangerous. And the first thing I did was convert a closet into a panic room in case there's an attack. When the door is sealed, it cannot be opened from the outside."

"The border alarm, sealing the ground, the carriage house," Merciael recounted from the backseat. "You miracled all of that, Principality?" She sounded impressed, and rightfully so. As an angel in Heaven, she had never learned how to do even simple wards.

"Don't forget about the cottage," Aziraphale said. "That was the tricky one."

"Come on," said Crowley. "Get out. You can tell me all about it on the walk over."

The three exited the car and called to the others. When Goral found out that there was more to discover, he quickly fell in line much to Chripheala's relief, and prepared to follow wherever he was led. The physical exercise after sitting and dozing in the car for a couple hours left Aziraphale a little wobbly, but Crowley was soon at his side to steady him. 

Merciael snuffed the lights as they left the carriage house. In the sudden darkness, the faint glow of the cottage and a spangle of stars overhead were more noticeable. 

The rest began to follow Aziraphale who walked a crooked, lazy line back to the dower house. Crowley tightened his grip to keep him from tripping over his own uneven tread.

"You overexerted yourself," he scolded quietly. "And for what?"

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. It hadn't been as obvious in the Bentley, but with each step, he felt more utterly drained. "Let us hope my haste was unwarranted. Look up," Aziraphale said with a slight nudge. "How is the view?" he asked, hoping to distract the demon with the stars. 

Crowley, however, hadn't burned off all his wrath from before. It had leaked out in fits and hisses on the drive but Aziraphale only needed to shut his eyes for a minute or three to slip by and to have Crowley lapse into a disgruntled silence. But there was enough leftover now that they had arrived for a proper argument.

"You left me alone, Zira. I didn't think we were still doing that. I thought we were on _our side_. I thought _our side_ meant that neither one of us is supposed to go flying off without the other."

Aziraphale felt his chest tighten with regret. "It's still our side, Dearest," he pleaded. "I just wanted to get the wards up before the others arrived. If I hadn't, you would be sitting in the car until I had enough protections in place for you to move about. It would have taken all night and I would still be exhausted by the end of it. And it's not as if Merciael and Chripheala know how to help; it would only have slowed me down to teach them, provided they'd be willing to learn. Plus I don't think they'll be overly fond of how I've set up the cottage."

"For your sake it better be fucking worth it," Crowley growled. 

Having reached the residence, Merciael stepped in front to open the door. It held fast, which did nothing to soothe Crowley's temper.

"It's the wards, Dearest," the angel explained. "No one is allowed in without my invitation." He then bid everyone to enter.

The interior of the cottage had been transformed, partially. The dust and cobwebs were gone, the chimneys and floors had been swept, the windows had been cleaned and repaired. Every door, pane of glass, and other conceivable opening had been warded in such a way that made them impossible to cross without Aziraphale's permission. 

Everything that the principality had packed away in a pocket dimension back in London had been dumped out in the house. The books were carefully organized to prevent any damage to them, but the rest was in chaotic piles that demonstrated haste. Pictures meant to be hanging were still stacked on the floor. Most rooms had no furniture at all, and the pieces that were scattered about looked painfully incomplete. Paint swatches coated the walls in an incomplete patchwork. 

"Good grief, Angel," Crowley complained, "what are you waiting for?" All the effort the angel had expended -- and Crowley had been on Earth long enough to appreciate it -- and the place was hardly done. If Aziraphale was going to go to the trouble of endangering himself for a blasted home improvement project, Crowley expected more to show for it.

"You, honestly," Aziraphale said, blinking at the obviousness of it. "The bookshop was always mine but I figured that you deserve to make your mark here as much as I do."

Crowley glowered out of habit but felt a layer of anger sloughing off like old snakeskin. He could easily imagine where the pictures would go, which colors looked best on the walls, what fabrics (or leathers) would go on the furniture, what rugs, chairs, and loveseats he would add to the rooms Aziraphale had already partially assembled. There would be tartan -- they were in _fucking Scotland_ , of course there would be tartan -- but Crowley would keep it in line. And the kitchen and bathrooms would have to be clean and gleaming -- much as he might deny it, his aesthetic was still similar to Heaven after all -- with appliances that married technology with art and counters the perfect height for things that had nothing to do with cooking. 

He looked over at the angel with demonic fondness only to catch him stifling a yawn.

"You look dead on your feet, Zira," he told him. 

"Oh, just take me to bed, Dearest, and I'll be right as rain in the morning," Aziraphale said.

"Take?" Crowley repeated. " _Take?"_ he sputtered once more. "Put, Angel. The word you are looking for is _put_. I need to _put_ you to bed."

"If you say so." Aziraphale was frankly too tired to argue over semantics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take. Put. A big difference. Here's hoping you're enjoying it so far.


	11. Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley takes Aziraphale on a drive to spend some time around humans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little slice of life.

It took nearly a week to miracle enough repairs and lay enough wards on the manor house before they summoned Mameg. It could have happened sooner had Aziraphale overexerted himself as he had done initially, but Crowley kept watch to prevent exhaustion, willing even to drag Aziraphale to bed if he looked tired and in need of rest. And besides, it was important to teach Goral as well as the guardian angels how to set the wards so that they didn't depend upon Aziraphale for everything, which meant that their preparations took longer.

Mameg's summoning and escape drew a horde of demons to capture her and return her to Hell, but Heaven was waiting and eager to battle. Angelic soldiers were likewise happy to return a week later to fight again when the forces of Hell decided to raid Bairderick in the hopes of catching the inhabitants unprepared.

Mameg joining their settlement meant that Heaven appointed another guardian to watch over her. It also meant that Aziraphale and Crowley had another demon to teach about Earth and all things human.

It wasn't that the demons were unwilling to learn; it was that they were excessively, perpetually curious. Questioning everything was probably how they had ended up in Hell to begin with and after fielding wild questions non-stop for days, Aziraphale could begin to see why God had stopped answering although he still didn't think that curiosity was worth Falling. He suspected it wasn't their unquenchable thirst for knowledge so much as Lucifer's ability to manipulate their gullibility that separated them from Heaven.

So when Crowley told Aziraphale to get in the car one morning, he went without hesitation, relieved to have a moment's peace. Merciael sat silently in the back, watching and listening. It was only when they crossed the wards that marked the boundary of Bairderick that Crowley announced that they were having an overnight holiday in Edinburgh. With no further warning, he miracled the Bentley to a stretch of road 150 kilometers from the capital just so he could have the pleasure of speeding to it as fast as he could.

The drive was not as enjoyable with another entity in the backseat serving as a check on their banter. Their late-night conversations had been evolving recently but they knew better than to continue along those lines when Merciael was obviously listening. But if they were quiet, it was easy to imagine that it was just the two of them, much like old times.

"What do you have planned for us?" Aziraphale finally asked as they reached the outskirts.

"Just a bit of city air," Crowley shrugged as if this was completely spontaneous. "We'll be home again tomorrow but I want a brief change of pace. Restaurants, traffic, teeming humanity that already understands the basics of their civilization, tacky decorations and overcommercialization of a holy day. Maybe see if there's a theater playing anything worth sitting through."

Aziraphale perked up at that. "Is there?" he said. "Is there something of interest playing in one of the theaters?"

"Who can say?" the demon drawled silkily. He could say in great detail but wouldn't admit to any well-intentioned forethought. "If there is, we'll just have to hope that they still have two tickets miraculously for sale."

"Three tickets," came the correction from the backseat.

A muscle in Crowley's cheek jumped, but Aziraphale said, "I'm sure you'll want your seat to be strategically positioned rather than right next to Crowley."

There was a beat of silence, then, "Are you two planning on pretending to be a human couple while in the city?"

"Well, I hadn't given it much thought," said the angel, because he hadn't been the one to plan this little getaway, "but I suppose that makes good sense. Thank you for the suggestion, Merciael."

He and Crowley had stopped pretending to be a human couple after the first night in Bairderick. It provoked more questions than they cared to answer from the demons and angels around them, especially now that there were no nearby humans needing to be fooled by their display. So they didn't kiss in front of the others, or demonstrate obviously affectionate gestures. And if they occasionally held hands, it was only modeling totally normal human behavior. And if Merciael thought that Aziraphale was ever updating the wards to let her come upstairs to where their private rooms were, she was an even greater fool than… than the most foolish being Aziraphale could imagine.

But being among humans again meant that they had an excuse for all sorts of budding affection that they had practiced before Goral crashed into their lives. It certainly didn't give them license to do anything _obscene_ in public, but a little flirtatious nonsense was suddenly available to them. Far more flirtatious nonsense than they would have considered a few short months ago.

Their first stop, however, was decidedly unromantic: a post office. The woman behind the counter was surprised to discover a small bag of mail had been sitting in a spot she was certain had been empty. The bag, of course, contained letters, bills, and other correspondence forwarded from Aziraphale's bookshop. It was a small diversion from whatever else Crowley had wanted to do, but it warmed Aziraphale to think of how thoughtful the gesture was.

Content to let Merciael carry the bag, Crowley led them out of the building and down the street, ready to stretch his legs. After a few blocks, Aziraphale spotted a charming cafe so they stopped for a drink and to read the mail. At their table, Aziraphale quickly divided the mail into two piles: that which was important to him and that which might interest Crowley. There was no third pile as he was angelically immune to junk mail.

Most of his envelopes contained personal enquiries after specifically sought-after books from various collectors who knew him by reputation or through experience, and Aziraphale easily set them aside after a quick perusal. Better by far, he read petitions from collectors already in possession of a book that needed skilled repairs; those went into a separate pile for providing a timely reply. Two envelopes contained cards announcing upcoming auctions in January and February that he might have wanted to attend if things were not so precarious. And there were a number of holiday greetings from all over -- from people and businesses that he knew through the shop, to businesses he patronized throughout London, to charities that he gifted with money and miracles, to neighbors who missed him even though the shop had never been open much.

He set down his teacup and picked up another Christmas card. "Oh," he said in some surprise, "it's for you."

He handed the card to Crowley who set aside a magazine to read the address. "Ms. Ashtoreth," he hummed before flipping it over to read the return address printed on the back flap. "Little blighter remembered me."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow as he looked at the flap. "The Dowlings?" he read. "Well, you did spend a day with Warlock just before we, uh. Before all this started."

Crowley made a noise that might have been agreement and messily ripped the envelope. He extracted a photo card from the debris and smiled.

Photo cards, like selfies, were his. The burden families put on themselves -- the time spent assembling coordinating outfits; the exhaustion of scheduling the photographer sometimes months in advance and then rearranging the family's calendar to accommodate the session; the begging, bribing, cajoling, threatening, and screaming to get children and adults in line; if it was done well, the vanity that resulted from the superficial slice of their lives; and the gut-wrenching envy when they received a superior photo card from another family. For a demon, it was worth a few commendations.

The Dowlings' card did not disappoint. The parents and their son were positioned in front of a holiday tree (no _Christmas_ about it, especially as Warlock had mentioned the photo shoot had happened in October). There was a suitably political and non-denominational message printed in gold font with the family's names in calligraphy below. It was totally heartless and devoid of personality and Crowley would have appreciated it for that reason alone, but Warlock had taken a sharpie to it while his mother's back was turned. He had blacked out half of his father's teeth, given his mother a moustache, and even drew some glasses around his own eyes.

A hand-scrawled note was also included from Warlock to his former nanny. Crowley read it silently to himself before passing it to Aziraphale.

The principality tsked when he reached the end. "Poor Warlock is really angling for another day with you, Ashtoreth," he said.

Crowley grunted. "Suppose I need to write him back, tell him I've moved to Scotland. Tell him Brother Francis swept me off my feet or something."

The two shared a look. Before Aziraphale could make a flustered noise or Merciael could ask about Brother Francis, Crowley turned his attention back to the card and muttered clearly, "Fix those bloody teeth first, though."

The comment effectively dulled Aziraphale's glow which allowed Merciael to requisition a brief history of Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis and the would-be Antichrist.

Aziraphale had just concluded a sanitized version of events when Crowley grabbed a letter from the top of the remaining pile.

"Is this from Tadfield?" he asked as if unable to believe the postmark.

"Yes," Aziraphale admitted, recognizing who must have sent it. "Shortly after the world didn't end I struck up a correspondence with that American descendant of Agnes Nutter."

"The one who hit my car?" Crowley put it in relevant terms.

"The young woman with the bicycle." Aziraphale didn't exactly agree with the demon on the matter of blaming the poor witch for the accident. "You know my fondness for prophecies, and I wanted to see if Mrs. Nutter had any more lying around; you can imagine how valuable they would be. And if she knew enough to predict the apocalypse and its failure, and how we --" He cut himself off with a nervous glance at Merciael. "And the day after, she might have more prophecies prepared for whatever follows. But of course I can't just come out and ask if Miss Device has come into the possession of any new forecasts, so I've just decided to befriend her now in the hopes that I can bring it up later. As you might have guessed, she's quite interested in magic and the occult, so we have that in common."

"Since when?" Crowley gaped at him. "I moved in with you two days after the world was supposed to end. Why am I just now finding out about this? When did you have time for this?"

"Well, I…" Aziraphale fidgeted in his seat. He had never intended to keep this a secret from Crowley, but then again he had never remembered to bring it up when it mattered. "Well, it's just that I typically dealt with all my letters and reports while you were sleeping, Dearest. I never told you because you weren't around when I opened my mail. It's just been three letters all told between us; well, four now that she's replied again. And nothing related to anything dire. Just the social sort of chatter. I introduced myself and stated our mutual interests. She asked where she might acquire some occult accessories in England. I answered with my recommendations. I expect she just wrote back to say thank you."

Crowley sneered at that. It wasn't that he didn't trust the angel, it was that he didn't trust anyone else in general.

"Open and read it, yourself," Aziraphale said, passing him the envelope, eager to demonstrate trust and put any disagreement behind them.

Crowley slid the envelope back across the surface of the table. "No," he said, "you first. If it's bad news, I definitely don't want to read it."

Aziraphale huffed fondly and complied. "See for yourself," he said at last with a soft smile. "Nothing sinister. Just normal human communication."

Maybe the demon glanced at the paper. Maybe he merely rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses. "You and I have different definitions of the word _normal_ , Angel," he said, but he was content to let the matter drop for the most part. He was still demon enough, and if he could use this as leverage to see a comedy tonight instead of some dreary tragedy, then so be it.

* * *

They saw The Play that Goes Wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the record show I'm not a huge fan of self-aggrandizing end-of-year correspondence as either the photo card or the Year In Review essay. 
> 
> In An Equitable Arrangement, Crowley does spend a day with Warlock for old times' sake, which explains the card from the Dowling family. I also figured it would be convenient to be able to pull in Anathema and, through her, Adam if the plot needed it but it ended up being filler.
> 
> And it appears that the status of their relationship is not the only thing that Aziraphale forgets to discuss with Crowley.


	12. A Growing Horde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new refugee shows up unexpectedly.

Aziraphale sat in the upstairs sunroom and read. It wasn't sunny at three in the morning, in February, in Scotland, but the plants didn't seem to mind the reading light and he didn't have to worry about disturbing Crowley's slumber. 

It was amazing the difference a few months made, he thought. The manor house had been warded and partially restored, and the cottage had been made into a real home. Granted, it was a home that Crowley and he had to share with Merciael, but as he had never updated the wards to allow anyone but himself and Crowley upstairs, it wasn't especially noticeable at times like this.

And they still drove to Edinburgh or Inverness every four or five weeks, just the three of them -- Aziraphale, Crowley, and Merciael. It brought them into contact with humanity, which both of them needed after sixty centuries of habit. And it gave them an excuse to act like a couple in public without having to justify it. 

There was a pleasant rhythm to their days in between the raids; it rather made him think of London during the Blitz. So long as it was safe, Aziraphale left the cottage early every morning and went to the manor house where he spent hours with the renounced demons, teaching them about humanity and answering their questions. The newest arrivals needed the most instruction but also the most understanding. The initial acclimatization was primarily Crowley's job although Goral often assisted. Some of the demons wanted nothing more but to hide or sleep their trauma away, and they were given a safe space to do so, but for the rest, once the ground rules were set, the education began. 

Those demons were all eager to learn, with strengths and weaknesses as varied as any cross section of humanity. Aziraphale found the lessons to be exhausting and rewarding. He spent the afternoons preparing for the next day or answering questions that didn't fit into a demon's allotted time. The guardian angels were never explicitly discouraged from sitting in on the lessons, but Zira made it clear that if they'd rather be somewhere else, the demon would be perfectly safe under Aziraphale's own supervision for an hour. Usually that was all the angel needed to hear to temporarily disappear. Angels weren't typically eager to protect creatures they had been conditioned to destroy so the respite was welcome by all. 

Dinner was often a shared meal at the manor, but Aziraphale was usually drained by then, wanting only Crowley's company and something pleasant to eat. And Crowley, by that time, was equally desirous of the relative peace and quiet of the cottage. And they would miracle a bottle, and listen to music or Aziraphale would read while Crowley watched videos on his phone. Eventually Crowley would stretch and yawn so wide that his jaw would nearly unhinge. Aziraphale would then announce that it was time for bed and they would go upstairs, deaf to Merciael's suggestion that Aziraphale update the wards in case she needed to go up there. 

They would brush their teeth and change their clothes in the human way and curl up in bed until Crowley drifted off to sleep. Aziraphale might stay with him the rest of the night, pressed against his sleeping form with a mind finally free of all the concerns of the day. But tonight Aziraphale got up and went to the sunroom to read.

If Aziraphale stopped and listened, he could hear Merciael patrolling the rooms downstairs. The guardian angels were an unvoiced worry to him. He wanted to be kind to them -- he was the sort of angel who wanted to be kind to everyone -- but he knew that he needed to maintain a certain distance. As important as it was to befriend the demonic refugees and teach them how to integrate with life on Earth now that they had renounced Hell, it was dangerous to give the other angels the suggestion that they might likewise prefer Earth to Heaven. It was bad enough that the forces of Hell wanted to end their existence, but at least Heaven protected them as pawns in their timeless struggle. To prevent Heaven from seeing them as a threat as well, it was necessary to be grateful yet distant. It necessitated a certain coolness in his relationships with the other angels, but Aziraphale had never gotten on well with his peers. That was probably why he worked so well with Crowley.

He felt a sudden vibration, like someone had just struck a tympani of doom. It rattled the bones in his corporation and nearly knocked the book out of his hands. This was the result of the protections he had installed around the boundaries of Bairderick, and it was felt by everyone within. The logic at the time had been clear, foolproof: if anyone had wandered off for a private picnic or just to explore, they needed to know immediately to return to the safety of the warded buildings in case the visitors were hostile. Unfortunately, the warning system had no way to distinguish between friend and foe so any intruder produced the same anxiety-inducing reaction until the new arrival could get near enough to the manor to be categorized as threat or otherwise.

All of which was to say that anyone who had been sleeping soundly had just been rudely awakened and in desperate need of answers.

"Angel!" Crowley shouted from the bedroom. There was a bite of worry that needed to be soothed before someone did something drastic.

"In here, Crowley!" Aziraphale answered calmly. "I decided to read to your plants after you fell asleep."

Crowley stumbled into the room, eyes wild and hair disheveled. "What happened? What's going on?"

"I know no more than you. I felt the alarm exactly when you did, Dearest," Aziraphale patiently explained. "Put on some proper clothes and let's go downstairs to see if Merciael is expecting anyone in particular."

"It's three in the fucking morning, Zira. I am perfectly dressed for the middle of the night." Crowley crossed his arms petulantly over his naked chest. His silk pajama bottoms rested on his hips like an afterthought.

"You are perfectly dressed for being _in bed_ ," Aziraphale corrected him with an indulgent smile. "But if we're going to have company, you should probably wear something a little warmer."

Crowley glowered but still snapped himself into a more appropriate outfit. Aziraphale gave him a peck on the cheek as a reward and led the way downstairs. 

Merciael had no new information other than to say that she had not been forewarned of a visit from Heaven, which meant that it had to be Below. Crowley rolled his shoulders and thrashed his arms around in a small tantrum. This was not how he wanted to spend his night, or his morning. This was Goral and the fucking minibreak all over again. 

"But Michael knows and is readying the troops to defend us," Aziraphale said. There was a gentle prompting hint in his tone that required a confirmation from Merciael even if the guardian angel didn't consciously recognize it. 

"Of course," she said. "I am only waiting on them to arrive before going outside. The others in the manor are also preparing. Will you be joining us tonight, Principality?"

"We are not going outside until it's safe again," Crowley announced for the both of them. They were neither of them warriors; it was asinine to even suggest they participate.

"The refugees look up to you as a--"

"Don't say, 'savior,'" Crowley told her. 

"I was going to call you an inspiration," Merciael informed him. "Both of you."

"Don't say, 'both,'" said Aziraphale. 

Merciael looked at them for a long time before sighing heavily. It was one of the few mortal mannerisms she had picked up on Earth. Considering how little interaction she'd had with humans, Aziraphale had to face some hard truths about himself to discern who had taught it to her. 

A series of blinding flashes outside were timed perfectly with a warning drumming inside their chest cavities, announcing the arrival of Heaven's forces. It was time for Merciael to go.

"You will stay in the cottage until an agent of Heaven informs you that it is safe to leave." It was more of a command than a question but it aligned perfectly with Crowley's plans. She didn't wait for them to respond before she marched out the front door. 

* * *

A demon had fled Hell seeking sanctuary, just like Goral had. The demonic company that had pursued him was quick at his heels. With very little warning, Heaven was ready for the fight.

Pinned down as they were in the cottage, Aziraphale and Crowley had unpleasant flashbacks to the minibreak that started this current chapter of their existence. But at least this time, neither of them was bound with divine ropes or watched by an unknown angel wielding a sword, and the dowager cottage was much better protected than the hasty wards Crowley had thrown up that night. 

They settled in the sunroom near the kitchen. In addition to a jungle of plants, the room had a sofa with the same relative size and comfort as the one in the bookshop back in Soho, but it was upholstered in a modern style and looked considerably less frumpy to a clever observer. Aziraphale settled on the sofa, and Crowley settled into Aziraphale, wrapping his arms around the angel's waist and wedging his head under the angel's chin. 

"I hate this part," Crowley grumbled as they waited for the fighting to start.

Aziraphale smiled fondly and wound his fingers through Crowley's hair. The demon had been woken abruptly from a sound sleep and was still a little out of sorts. Aziraphale knew that if he only gave Crowley a few more minutes, the redhead would be rattling off creative ideas for spending the time more pleasantly. They had sat through several similar battles at Bairderick already: seven provoked by summoning and rescuing demons who wanted to renounce, and an equal number of raids from Hell hoping to drag their recent escapees back down with them.

"I don't know what annoys me more," Crowley continued, growing more boneless under Aziraphale's touch: "that they keep asking you to join them, or they keep ordering us to stay put until the fighting is over. Why? Why do they bother? After stopping the Apocalypse, why would they think we'd want to fight? This is exactly what we tried to avoid!" He burrowed closer. "And what do they expect us to fight with, a flaming sword and a blasted tire iron? You gave away the sword. Twice!"

Aziraphale's fingers stilled for a moment. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "About that…"

Crowley put as little distance between them as needed to look the angel in the eye. "What about it?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath first. "I, I have another sword," he admitted. "The night I came ahead to set the wards, Sandalphon was here to meet me. He gave me a new sword. He had heard that I had no weapon and had come to fix the matter."

"Is that meant for me?" Crowley asked. After all, if he hadn't blurted it out during that celebratory dinner in Inverness, then the guardian angels wouldn't have passed the information onto Heaven. 

"No! No, of course not!" Aziraphale was quick to correct him. He pressed a brief kiss into Crowley's forehead. "But this new sword is terrible. It's cursed, I can't give this one away. I haven't touched it since Sandalphon gave it to me. I think I actually forgot about it for a little bit. Moving was just so exhausting and, by the time I had recovered, it was the furthest thing from my mind."

"Exhausting," Crowley echoed flatly, then said the word again in a smug tone.

"Oh, you --" but he had nothing but cherished pet names for the demon, and that would be a distracting encouragement. "The point is I now have a weapon I hope never to use. I don't even want to take it out for fear that it will hurt someone. It's silly, really."

"You're not exactly on the payroll anymore, Angel," Crowley told him. "Conscientious objection, that's one of yours, right? Let them want and not have; disappointment'll do them some good. They can't make you fight."

"It's Heaven, Dearest. They have infinite patience. They'll get their way, eventually." Aziraphale sighed and wrapped his arms tightly around Crowley. "It seemed far less creepy when I was on their side."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? Penpals, flaming swords,,, Aziraphale isn't intentionally keeping secrets from Crowley. 
> 
> As someone who is married with kids, I can attest that there were some Very Important Conversations (tm) with my husband that simply didn't happen until 5 min before (or after) the deadline because we were too tired or distracted to have them earlier. Parenting is exhausting.


	13. Renegotiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven is dissatisfied with the pace of growth at Bairderick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q: what's worse than a curious demon?
> 
> A: a curious angel.

Suth, the newest demon fell into a deep sleep as soon as the fighting stopped. It had been bloody: four angels had been discorporated and one had ceased to exist entirely, but the demons had suffered more thorough losses which tempered Heaven's grief. 

Three booms announced visitors from Above while the residents of Bairderick were still miracling away the damage. They marched directly to where Aziraphale and Crowley were at work. 

"Principality." Archangel Michael spoke brusquely, the archangel Gabriel and a guardian in step beside her. "We want to speak with you. Now." It was heavily implied that Heaven had not come to share happy news.

Aziraphale dusted his hands and nodded, not wanting to keep them waiting. "Yes, of course. Right here or shall we go to the main house?" he suggested. He hadn't invited them into the cottage yet, and he preferred to keep it that way.

The two archangels had no desire to walk into the home of so many demons so they signaled that the conversation would happen here and now. With a quick glance and a wave, Aziraphale drew Crowley to his side. Merciael lagged only slightly. 

"Really, Aziraphale," Gabriel huffed in condescension. "You don't need to keep the demon with you everywhere."

"No," admitted Aziraphale, "but it saves me from having to repeat everything to him later." He took hold of Crowley's wrist. It was not as bold as holding hands, but the touch provided comfort.

"One of our own has ceased to exist," Michael announced, getting to the point.

"Praphilia will be sorely missed," said Aziraphale soberly. "My sympathies to all her closest friends. I'm sure we'll put together a small memorial in a few days if anyone from Upstairs wants to attend." The slain guardian had not been assigned to watch over any of the demons at Bairderick, only arriving to skirmish with Hell, but Aziraphale had met her twice and sympathy was a natural response for him. 

"Praphilia knew the potential sacrifice she was making," Michael said. It did not sound as if Praphilia had many close friends to grieve her loss. "And your little experiment has gained another demon, so we are assigning another guardian."

Aziraphale smiled benevolently and exchanged introductions as the new arrival -- Jophinius -- inclined his head.

"We are always grateful for Heaven's aid," said Aziraphale, to the larger group. "The more, the merrier."

"That's the problem," said Gabriel. "A good problem to have, to be sure, but still a problem."

"What exactly is the problem?" spat Crowley. 

"It's just that their numbers are growing so quickly," said Michael. "Your plan to summon them was a stroke of genius, Aziraphale, but it has meant that more angels are assigned to Earth as guardians than we had originally planned. Circumstances on the ground are forcing us to reconsider the terms of our original offer."

Aziraphale felt as if he was balanced precariously on shifting sands. It turned out that Heaven didn't need to view them as a threat to destroy them. If Heaven decided to reduce support, or end it entirely, that would leave their little settlement at Hell's mercy. In all his precautions against making his position on Earth seem desirable to the other angels, he had accidentally driven them away.

"What, what sort of changes?" Aziraphale coughed. 

Michael looked at him flatly. She was never as blatantly condescending as Gabriel but, as Heaven's general, she had no reason to be. "You've added a new demon every 10 to 14 days since the first one appeared, almost exclusively through summoning," she said. "Have you considered not summoning the demons, letting them come to you?"

"Well, it's just that," Aziraphale began, "it's just that we seek only the ones who suffer the most. They are being tortured in there. The longer we leave them in Hell, the more they will be hurt and the more inevitable that Hell will find a way to block us."

"They've been cast out since the beginning of time, six thousand years at least," Gabriel reminded him. "I'm sure they can wait a little longer. And besides, they're demons; who are we to doubt whatever punishment they deserve?"

The archangel may have intended his words for Aziraphale, but the demons nearby would have needed to be deaf not to hear his callousness.

Michael noticed the change in the air, the sudden attention and silence from everyone else. Bearing tidings was Gabriel's forte, but perhaps he had let his personal animosity impair his performance. Michael needed to wrap up this conversation before someone did something stupid. 

"The point, Principality," she said loudly so that everyone could hear her, "is that Heaven has decided to limit the number of guardian angels with longterm Earth assignments. While we don't trust demons well enough to give them weapons of any kind, the wards have kept them safe during direct attacks and they have exceeded our expectations of their self-sufficiency. Henceforth, only one additional guardian per month will be assigned to the posting here, and that's only if you gain a demon. We will still be on call to beat back any attempt by the forces of Hell to take over this area or capture its inhabitants. We still want to destroy Satan and his followers, and we still recognize that the continued success of this settlement gets us closer to that goal. We are not abandoning you but nor do I want an entire corps of angels down here full-time. You will simply have to learn how to make do with less."

"Oh, I see" said Aziraphale, trying to keep his voice neutral. "I suppose you are determined to follow this new plan starting immediately?"

Michael nodded, grown tired of words. 

"Have the other archangels been consulted to see if they might wish to provide aid?" Aziraphale asked. "If Raphael could spare a healer, there are a few demons that are too traumatized to come out of their rooms. Or some of the demons are interested in music, if Uriel could --"

"You could try begging for more help," Gabriel interjected smugly, "if you think it would help."

"No, it would not," Crowley said through gritted teeth. 

It was clear that the demon had more to say, and especially clear to Aziraphale that those words would be incendiary. 

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" he blurted out, hoping the invitation would only drive them away faster. 

The question had the desired effect. The archangels only stayed long enough to state that they were leaving. With flashes of light and nearly painful reverberations in everyone's chests, the pair were gone. Jophinius remained standing there in their wake. 

Now that Michael and Gabriel had left, Aziraphale dearly wanted to dissect this piece of news, but he couldn't speak privately with Crowley while Merciael hovered close by. 

"Merciael, would you please take Jophinius to the manor, and show him around?" suggested Aziraphale. It would serve the double purpose of helping the newcomer as well as giving Aziraphale and Crowley space to speak privately without waiting until they retired to bed that night.

Merciael, however, flatly refused. Her job was to protect Crowley and she did that by staying as close to him as possible. Leaving him unguarded in the open air while she gave a tour to another angel was a dereliction of her duty. Aziraphale tried not to feel dejected but sometimes Merciael was the wrong kind of helpful -- doing what Heaven wanted rather than what was needed. 

Fortunately, a demon known as Rooster -- the poor thing had been summoned with the name phonetically identical to _pustule_ and had been eager to change it as soon as he learned that such freedom was possible -- had been standing close by during the entire exchange with the archangels. He offered to take care of Jophinius and led the guardian angel away. 

Other demons stayed outside and miraculously effected repairs. Because the guardian angels had tired themselves in the recent fighting, and needed to conserve their strength in case Hell returned soon for an ambush, they did not participate in the repairs as a rule. That left the work to any demons brave enough to venture beyond the protective perimeter of the manor to bring everything back to normal by the usual dinner time. 

There was a strange electricity in the formal dining room that evening. Archangels had visited and left a terrifying piece of gossip for everyone present to discuss. Suth was absent, still sleeping off the worst of his ordeal although a place was set for him. Some guardian angels stood along the wall in the hall, peering out windows or watching the demons, always vigilant. 

When Rooster brought Jophinius to the room, the new angel asked where he should sit. There was a momentary hush as angels and demons tried to make sense of the request; no other guardian had ever asked such a thing before. Then Aziraphale cleared his throat and offered up the empty chair where Suth would have sat in between Rooster and Midge, and the chatter gradually resumed. 

If Aziraphale had ever thought that demons were too inquisitive, it was only because he had never met an angel like Jophinius. The guardian had never experienced anything remotely like Earth and puzzled over every detail.

"You put these in your mouth?" he asked as a demon put some food on his plate.

"Not everyone does," Midge explained. "It's an acquired taste. You'll have to see what you like."

That was tediously true. Some demons were like Crowley and rarely ate; some were like Aziraphale and found pleasure in trying anything every day; and some enjoyed eating in general but suffered a visceral revulsion to certain foods like sugar or red meat. 

Jophinius picked up a small potato with his hand and placed it in his mouth. As before, a hush fell over the room as everyone twisted and leaned to get a view of the angel's reaction as he chewed. After a minute, he spit the mess back into his hand and asked what he was supposed to do with it next. Everyone laughed at the shared experience, for everyone in the room had either done that very thing or had watched another do it. After Goral's original misunderstanding with the cocoa, he had been curious to see what Mameg would do; and each new demon had wanted to see how the next would react, so they repeated this little test. Now that they had all seen how Jophinius acted, the demons sitting closest nearly fell over themselves to be helpful in explaining how to swallow.

At last Aziraphale could look at Crowley and relax as the demon gave him a crooked grin. It had been an exhausting week. They had to fight Hell after summoning Creasey, and then had put everything back to rights. Just as the dust had settled, Suth arrived and renounced, provoking another battle. And of course any interaction with Gabriel was draining. He looked forward to climbing into bed with Crowley tonight; perhaps he would even fall asleep for a few hours!

Then Jophinius had a question for him, and another, and another. It was a relief when Crowley stood up, signalling the end of the meal. Some of the demons usually gathered in another room for more conversation, and Midge had decided to learn how to play the fiddle, but Crowley and Aziraphale -- and Merciael -- were ready to return to the cottage now.

"You don't stay here?" said Jophinius.

"No, not if we can help it," Aziraphale said, grateful for the separation. "It's not a long walk, and you'll probably see us all tomorrow. Until then." He gave a small nod and turned away. 

Crowley bumped shoulders with him as they walked out the front door, and stayed close as they covered the familiar path.

"He seems terribly inquisitive for an angel," Aziraphale finally admitted, unable to wait for more privacy.

"And what are you?" Crowley asked with another affectionate bump of his shoulder.

"Don't let's ask that." Aziraphale hoped he sounded flippant but knew better. He was a roster-filler for Heaven, unwanted but still useful in his own way. He was slowly coming around to the fact that he was as much of an angel as Crowley was a demon, but what exactly that meant to him was still unclear.

"If I may, Principality," offered Merciael as she followed closely behind, "there may come a time when you need more than renounced demons on your side."

As one, they stopped and turned to face her. The night air, already cold, grew frosty. 

After a while, Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Merciael, dear girl, I'm not quite sure what you mean to say and I'll ask you not to repeat it again."

She looked at them, her eyes illuminated from within, but did not reply. Eventually she blinked. "As you wish, Principality," she conceded and let the matter drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q: what's worse than a curious angel?
> 
> A: an angel smart enough not to need to be told what's going on.


	14. Mentorship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels and demons turn to our pair for advice and direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the joys of other people's questions!

Crowley burrowed in between the layers of bedding, making all sorts of odd and endearing noises in appreciation for the modern miracle of heated sheets. 

"So," Aziraphale said with his natural fussiness, "both Creasey and Suth together with you today."

Crowley made another noise, far less content and far more fatigued than before. He superintended the introduction of each new refugee to Earth by basically sitting them in front of the telly and making them watch children's educational programming. The episodes checked lots of boxes: they were nonviolent; they taught politeness and manners; they were simple and repetitive. Crowley would show an episode and observe the demon's reaction, see how quickly they grasped the concepts, gauge whether they were ready to move on. 

There was a lot of trauma that built up after getting thrown out of Heaven and enduring 6,000 years of torture, and unexpected things could trigger ferocious outbursts. Before Crowley felt comfortable leaving them with Aziraphale, he wanted to know that they were safe to be around. Plus, he didn't want to have to deal with any fallout from the guardian angels having to subdue a suddenly aggressive demon. 

As a rule, by the time a demon had graduated to cooking and gardening shows, Crowley was ready for them to join the others. As a rule, he only worked with one demon at a time, keeping them safely isolated, not knowing how one's reaction could upset another. Now, however, he had two at once. 

"That's not the worst of it," he eventually ground out. "That new angel was there the entire time. He wouldn't shut up. Kept asking questions when the demons were trying to watch the puppets."

Jophinius had not shut up despite the increasingly visible annoyance of Creasey and Suth. Crowley had to tell the guardian point-blank to get out of the room before negative emotions spilled into negative actions.

Crowley had always had a soft spot for children. In many ways the refugees were like children -- extremely powerful children -- and he could only look after so many at once. 

"My poor dear," Aziraphale commiserated as he got into bed as well, "but I'm afraid I had the worse day by far."

Crowley made a noise that passed for encouragement and challenge, and Aziraphale moved closer. The demon nestled into him, wrapping an arm around the angel's waist and resting his head comfortably. Aziraphale responded by squeezing Crowley's shoulder and releasing a cleansing breath.

"Goral and Mameg asked me about sex today," Aziraphale said. 

Crowley, who had been feeling rather pliant and moldable, suddenly stiffened. "They did _what_?" 

"It was bound to happen eventually, I suppose. Goral has been asking questions of all sorts since he arrived, you know. He's terribly curious, like another demon I am quite fond of," Aziraphale tutted. "He's asked about holding hands and kissing since you and I were pretending to be a human couple." There was a ghost of inflection on that last phrase, like one parent talking to another about what gifts Santa Claus would bring.

"That's not sex, not by a long shot," Crowley pointed out with the certainty of a man-shaped being who knew the difference.

"This is all my fault," Aziraphale took the blame. "I didn't want them to start a physical relationship. Not at first. Not without giving them both time to unpack their baggage and see if that's the sort of thing they wanted. Just because Goral saw us kiss once or twice doesn't mean he or Mameg would enjoy it. I told him to start small and gentle -- holding hands, that sort of thing."

Crowley spent most of his "demon time" with the newest arrivals, but he couldn't believe he had missed this. "How did I not see any of that?" he chastised himself.

Aziraphale huffed. "Guilty again!" he admitted."I didn't want to confuse the other demons into thinking that everyone needed to pair up. Not everyone is meant for it; and even if one is, there's no guarantee that they should partner with someone who's currently here. Naturally, that becomes less important as more demons arrive and more choices become obvious, but I told Goral to keep it quiet.

"And he did," said Aziraphale. "He was the soul of discretion. He and Mameg would occasionally pull me aside and ask about hugs or kisses, and I saw no harm in the natural and measured progression. But it was St. Valentine's Day last week."

"Valentine's? I had no idea." Crowley exuded a false innocence.

The angel gave him a look that was equal parts affection and exasperation. Crowley would never admit it, but Aziraphale knew the demon had set the date and time of last summoning so that they two would spend the holiday locked down in the cottage alone while Merciael was outside fighting demons on the grounds of Bairderick. In truth, they hadn't done anything new, but they had unchaperoned access to the main floor in which to do it. (For the record, the kitchen counter was the perfect height for things that had nothing to do with cooking.)

"Yes, well, Goral and Mameg wanted to speak privately with me today. I thought they were going to talk about Praphilia's memorial service. We had been talking in a larger group about human death rituals -- mummification, cremation, and internment, funerals, and wakes, that sort of thing -- and, and, and out of nowhere they asked how to have sex. I felt ambushed, and completely unprepared."

"What did you say to them?" Crowley asked with a suspicion of dread. 

There was a beat of silence as Aziraphale relived the moment.

"I told them I had no idea how two demons have sex with each other, hoping to put them off. Naturally, that prompted them to ask what kind of sex was I familiar with."

Crowley just stared at him for a while with his mouth hanging open. "Angel," he said at last.

"I'm afraid I got too prim and proper," Aziraphale sighed. "I explained that it was rather rude to ask for another's sexual history unless you were hoping to see if the two of you were sexually compatible. As neither of them wished to sleep with me, they shouldn't ask. And then I launched into this whole lecture about the human history of sexual taboos -- between certain types of people or under certain conditions, and how society punished offenders, and how so much of it was political nonsense under a sanctimonious facade. I just kept talking until we were called to dinner because I was afraid that, when I stopped, they would have more questions for me. I should be grateful they didn't try to continue the conversation at the table. At least I'll be better prepared for them to ask again tomorrow. Just tell them to keep progressing slowly and if one of them isn't enjoying it, then the other is doing it wrong." He ruefully shook his head. "I never thought I'd ever have to give a 'birds and bees' talk to demons, but there are consequences to thwarting the Apocalypse."

With that, the angel lapsed into a brooding silence. 

"Tell them to try some wings-out snogging and see where it goes," Crowley mused philosophically. 

That brought a smile to Aziraphale's face although he intentionally didn't meet the demon's eye. 

* * *

Having given that piece of useful advice the next afternoon, Aziraphale sent the two demons away to put it into practice. With a moment's peace, he miracled himself a cup of tea and wondered if Crowley was done for the day and would like to walk the grounds for a bit of fresh air.

As if in answer, he heard a conversation coming down the hallway. Well, not so much a dialogue as a monologue from Jophinius asking questions for which he received barely intelligible replies. Probably less than intelligible to Jophinius who had been in the demon's company for less than a week although Aziraphale understood Crowley without fail. 

"Dearest!" Aziraphale poked his head out of the room. "There you are. I was just thinking about taking a walk. Care to join me?" He didn't bother to ask Merciael, knowing she would go wherever the demon went. He didn't ask Jophinius, hoping to rescue Crowley from an unwanted interaction. 

"Perfect," said Crowley, clinging to the lifeline Aziraphale had thrown him. 

Aziraphale stepped into the hall with a smile, shutting the door and miracling his teacup back to the kitchen. With a much practiced motion, he took Crowley's arm, inserting himself between the demon and the over-inquisitive angel. 

Giving Jophinius a small and hopefully dismissive smile, he asked Crowley, "And how are the new arrivals coming along? Will they be ready for me soon?" There were already enough demons that he met with them in pairs or small groups rather than individually to discuss history and reading. He would soon need to figure out if Creasey and Suth could join an established group or if he would need to reorganize again.

"Suth is now, but I think Creasey will need more time," Crowley judged.

"And what about me?" asked Jophinius, keeping pace with them.

The two slowed and stopped, looked at each other then looked at Merciael. Surely someone had explained to this new guardian that his job was to watch over and protect the demons, not join them in acclimating to Earth.

"But, Jophinius, you weren't assigned here to learn about Earth and humanity," Aziraphale said gently. Surely Merciael wouldn't have let the other guardian angel get this far in ignorance. "Isn't that right?" he asked, suddenly worried Heaven had changed their mind about protecting the settlement more than he had originally realized. "Am I mistaken about Jophinius' mission here?"

"I have it from Michael herself," Merciael informed them, "that the angels assigned to Bairderick are allowed to spend their free time in their own pursuits so long as it does not jeopardize their primary mission to protect and defend."

Crowley made a strangled noise. 

After a few aborted attempts to say something, Aziraphale at last asked, "And what do the other angels do for fun?"

Merciael squinted. As Crowley was of far greater strategic importance than any of the other demons, she didn't have free time and she didn't have fun. She also didn't fraternize with the others to know how they spent their time. 

Aziraphale did not hang his head in defeat; his posture did not waver. But he did give himself permission to lean precariously later when he was alone with Crowley. 

"I suppose it would be sensible to promote you with Suth," he said. "Keep you two together."

Crowley wouldn't thank Aziraphale for the sacrifice, but that silence was a common refrain in their long partnership. It was redundant to repeat what was so obvious to the both of them, and Crowley had a demonic reputation to protect.

Jophinius' face brightened to light up the passageway. "Thank you, Principality!" he said and began to gush of how much he was looking forward to this. "I don't know how I will be able to wait until morning! Perhaps you could stay a few hours after dinner and we could get started tonight?"

"A lovely offer, dear boy, but Praphilia's memorial service is today," said Aziraphale. 

"And we'll probably have a raid tonight, so we won't be staying late," Crowley added, knowing he couldn't cut out of the service too early but was still absolutely determined that he and Aziraphale would spend the raid in their cottage with only each other for company.

"A raid? Tonight?" Jophinius asked. "How do you know?"

Crowley shrugged. There wasn't any prophecy to it. "They always schedule raids a few days after we summon a new one. I'm sure they'll do the same for a runaway now." 

"But surely the little cottage isn't safe! Don't you need to stay in the big house during a raid?" He looked appalled and frightened on their behalf.

"No." The single answer came from Aziraphale, Crowley, and Merciael simultaneously. 

Aziraphale looked at them before providing more detail. "We prefer to spend that time in the cottage. We're perfectly safe there; Merciael has tested it many times and can attest to its protections."

Jophinius clearly wanted to argue, to beg and plead if necessary, but Mameg approached. In her matter of fact way, she informed them that Aziraphale and Crowley needed to help set up for the memorial service as they were the only two beings there with any experience in death. 

It dashed their hopes for a walk, but with Jophinius sticking so closely to them, the walk wouldn't have been private, and it gave Aziraphale a polite excuse to cut short their discussion. A curious demon was exhausting, but a curious angel was worse.


	15. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free-thinking is a dangerous habit for an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My SOP is that I write the whole story and get it to the point where I can just paste the chapters to post them. Then I post a chapter and keep polishing (rewriting) what comes next. Some chapters barely change but others -- like this one -- have whole pages completely rewritten. Bleh.

Jophinius was a very inquisitive but not very bright student. Aziraphale could see how Suth's expressions soured when the angel asked to repeat a point that the demons understood intuitively. It was truly a shame that, for all his curiosity, he had so little retention. He was also disinclined to learn from demons who had already mastered some subjects, refusing to listen to their attempts to answer his questions, insisting that only Aziraphale or Crowley could explain properly.

His unwillingness to listen to the demons earned him their dislike. Aziraphale thought this was unfortunate but understandable. Given what some of the demons had suffered, it was amazing they didn't hate everyone on principle. However, as hard as Aziraphale tried, even he -- an angel, a being of love -- found Jophinius to be a trial. That truth was hard to admit to himself, impossible to admit to others. It forced Aziraphale to redouble his efforts to like the guardian even if it was a constant irritation.

After the next summoning had brought a demon named Sanpox into their community, the following raid had passed, and Crowley was ready to hand off the newer arrivals to Aziraphale, the principality decided it was time to reorganize his classes. He needed to tell Jophinius that he would take his lessons with Sanpox while Creasey and Suth moved to a more advanced group. 

Rather than have this conversation in the manor where others might overhear, Aziraphale decided it would be more considerate to take Jophinius outside for a walk and break the news in the privacy of the open air. When he asked Jophinius to join him outside, the guardian angel was quick to acquiesce without even asking what Aziraphale wanted to discuss. 

After they had walked for perhaps a mile and were atop a hill with a view of the manor, Jophinius looked back. "I am glad you asked to speak with me privately, because it saves me from doing the same to you, but are we not too far from the buildings? What if the forces of Hell try to ambush us?"

"We should have sufficient warning to take shelter if there is an attack," Aziraphale replied with a feigned lack of concern. In truth, he would have felt better if someone else was close enough to interrupt when Jophinius started to annoy him, but Aziraphale knew he was being silly. "And I wanted to talk with you without the others about."

"Not even Crowley?" the guardian prodded. 

It was a strange and unexpected tease from the guardian angel. It set off a rarely used alarm bell inside Aziraphale's head. Rather than ignore the question, the principality gave him a measuring glance and said, "What about Crowley?"

Jophinius looked about, uncertain, but Aziraphale could begin to sense the artifice in it. "It's just that you two are together whenever you have the chance to be. You live with him in the little cottage instead of staying with the rest of us. You sit next to him when we are at table for meals. You go on walks with him, or go to town with him. You choose to spend your time with him every day and every chance you get. You choose so much for an angel, it hardly seems fair to the rest of us."

Aziraphale felt something within him go cold in warning. Almost without conscious decision, he began to bend their path back to the manor. He suddenly felt exposed out here, and too separated from Crowley and Merciael. 

"I suppose I picked up the habit from being around humans for all those centuries," Aziraphale said, keeping his tone light. "Free will and all that."

"But why are you so special?" Jophinius continued. "You are an angel, not a human, not a demon. Why do you get to defy the Almighty?"

"I have never done such a thing!" Aziraphale quickly disputed. 

"You lied to Heaven. You averted Armageddon," Jophinius countered. "Even now, you live with a demon. These are all crimes that I know of, but who can say what else you have done? Why can you do those things and not Fall? Why do the demons of this place not have to keep suffering for their sin as well? They do not deserve to be forgiven."

"You don't really believe that," Aziraphale said, a mistake.

Quick as a prayer, Jophinius was standing between Aziraphale and safety, sword drawn and pointed squarely at the principality's chest. "Do not challenge my beliefs."

Aziraphale did a very quick mental calculation, the end result of which was that he didn't want to fight a warrior trained by Michael and he didn't want to race hell-for-leather across the grounds to safety. Instead, he delicately pushed the sword to the side where it would be less likely to stab him and tried very hard to look far more severe than frightened.

"Did Michael put you up to this?" he offered. 

Angels, by nature, were not freethinkers; chances were that Jophinius did not invent these horrible thoughts on his own. Ideally he had overheard Michael and Gabriel being excessively frank and had misinterpreted their comments. Alternatively, Jophinius was working under explicit orders from Michael. Neither option was desirable but Aziraphale would prefer that it was all a misunderstanding that could be resolved before anyone got hurt. 

"The archangels have no idea," Jophinius said, proud to have fooled so many. With a flash of light, his sword was flaming and pointed back at Aziraphale.

"What, what is your plan?" Aziraphale asked nervously. He still pressed his palm against the flat of the blade. The fire didn't burn his skin but it clearly spoke of the intent to harm him. 

"Kill you," Jophinius answered coldly. "Then kill the demons. Not just discorporation either."

"You can't do that," Aziraphale protested. "It's wrong!" He just needed to keep Jophinius talking. Conversation was superior to fighting. It delayed the inevitable, and if he could just keep delaying or even manage to de-escalate the situation until someone spotted them -- they were standing on a hill, practically waiting to be seen -- then this could be stopped without violence. 

At this the other angel cracked a smile. "I don't think so. If what I want to do is so very wrong, She wouldn't tolerate it. She would have made me Fall already if this wasn't her intention all along."

Aziraphale took a deep breath and steeled himself. Crowley was going to be furious with him over this. "Not if She was counting on me to stop you."

He pushed the blade to the side again and lunged forward, wrapping Jophinius in a hug. It probably looked like a stupid move, but the guardian's sword was nearly useless once pinned to his side. Securing his hold, Aziraphale miracled a large and loud fireworks display in the sky above their heads that should attract the attention of many angels and demons.

He just needed to keep his grip until those in the manor house came to investigate, then he could let go and they would all be safe and Jophinius would --

There was a blindingly sharp pain as Jophinius stabbed him in the back with a short, slim blade that hasn't been there a moment ago. Aziraphale cried out and tried to hold on but the guardian shifted his grip, wiggling the dagger point for maximum effect. Aziraphale writhed in agony. Jophinius pushed him away and brandished both weapons -- a standard-issue sword and a short dagger now tipped in blood -- before closing in.

This was no longer time for talking. Jophinius was not stalled by words and Aziraphale would rather not waste his breath. The guardian stalked closer, waving his sword as if he was toying with the principality. Aziraphale retreated but this was clearly not a long-term strategy. His back ached from the wound and Jophinius would want to end this game quickly. 

Aziraphale misjudged a feint and Jophinius' sword sliced across his chest. It wasn't a deep cut but it still hurt immensely and began to bleed, and it signaled to Jophinius that playtime was over. He banished the dagger back to its pocket dimension and wrapped both hands around the grip, ready to bring the weapon down in a killing blow. 

Aziraphale really didn't want to be there. He hadn't wanted to take a walk with Jophinius to tell him about the change in class assignments. He didn't want to be stabbed and sliced on this hill, and he really didn't want to die there. He didn't want to hurt the other angel but Jophinius felt no such restraint. And if he didn't do something more effective than dodge or run away, he wasn't going to live long enough to do more. 

Aziraphale raised his hand in an unspoken prayer for protection, and his blasted sword materialized just in time to intercept the blow. The edge seemed to catch fire from Jophinius' blade scraping down it and Aziraphale staggered back from the force of the impact, dropping down on one knee. 

Jophinius howled in frustration at being denied. Then his eyes caught sight of a small crowd approaching from the manor. Aziraphale could hear them shouting over his shoulder but he didn't dare take his eyes off Jophinius to see if Crowley was among them. 

The guardian angel looked furious at the interruption. Then he smiled grimly as a new plan occurred to him and he threw himself at his victim. 

Aziraphale moved his sword out of the way to keep from skewering his opponent. Jophinius tackled him in the chest, toppling him completely and sending them both tumbling down the hill. He kept hold of his weapon and Jophinius kept hold of him. It was agony every time Aziraphale's body slammed into the ground. What hurt worse than anything, however, was the way Jophinius' fingers dug into his sides like claws. It felt like he was being ripped from his corporation, spiraling out, then landing again with a jolt back into his body. He realized as earth and sky spun around in his vision like a carnival ride that perhaps Jophinius had given up on the sword and was trying to discorporate him through more creative methods. It was therefore with relief each time Aziraphale reentered his corporation even though it was a source of physical pain. 

They reached the bottom of the hill. Before they broke apart, Jophinius struck him one final time. Aziraphale finally lost his grip on his sword and fell amid a cluster of guardian angels with weapons drawn and pointed at him.

The fall had been as disorienting as it was painful. He was injured and ached terribly all over and had somehow been disarmed. Thankfully the rest of the guardian angels had arrived to rescue him! 

He looked around trying to spot Crowley, not sure if he would prefer to draw comfort from the demon's presence or would feel better if he was safe and away from a dangerous situation. 

There was a flash of red hair coming closer. The flood of relief temporarily made Aziraphale forget about being stabbed. 

"Aziraphale!" Crowley shouted. "Aziraphale!"

He tried to speak, to call out in response, but the words came out in a croak and a groan, and he devolved into a coughing fit.

Crowley reached the group and immediately went to the other huddle of angels, checking another blond for injuries and hissing in concern.

Aziraphale stared dumbfoundedly. The other blond looked remarkably like him... almost an identical twin, although this unfortunate twin had allowed himself to be caught in a fight and covered in dirt. 

Then the twin spoke in Aziraphale's own voice: "I'm fine, dear boy," he said to Crowley. "Just a scratch, and a stab wound, and numerous contusions."

The pieces of the puzzle fit together suddenly and jarringly. That wasn't a lookalike; that was Jophinius wearing Aziraphale's corporation! And Crowley was hovering over him, exposing himself to danger and having no idea of it. Why, Jophinius could materialize his dagger and stab Crowley before anyone could blink!

"No!" Aziraphale yelled in alarm, attempting to get up. He was ready to physically insert himself between them to keep Crowley safe. "Get away from him!" 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale sounded exactly like Jophinius when he spoke. Angelic blades poked at him and hands restrained him by his arms and hair but he at least caught the attention of the demon and the imposter. 

Crowley didn't normally bother with sunglasses anymore; everyone at Bairderick already knew what he was, so why hide his eyes? Right now, however, Aziraphale could have used some shield against the hateful intensity of that look. For a moment, the threat in that serpentine glare knocked Aziraphale speechless. While Crowley was a demon, he was no more inherently evil or dangerous than any other being of celestial or mundane origin. But right now, he looked like he would murder the one who had nearly killed his angel and wouldn't _that_ be ironic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially I wanted Suth to be the bad guy, sent by Hell to infiltrate the settlement and destroy it from within. And then I thought, "Or what about Jophinius?"


End file.
